Provincialism and the Gentrification of Anglo-American Poetry, Part I

To start with a definition: provincialism, a mode of thought no longer solely relegated to regions outside high density urban areas, and characterized by narrow-mindedness, insularity, lack of, or excess of, sophistication.

“The provincialism of contemporary poets represents a fragmentation based on social exclusion.”

And gentrification, the process of making a person or activity more refined or polite, and acceptable to social standards.

“Poetry has undergone gentrification in large part as a result of the workshop industry.”

Then consider poetry readings as the ground where provincialism and the gentrification of Anglo-American poetry are on display. And ask yourself, when was the last time you attended a poetry reading by someone you didn’t know or was not known by the person(s) you accompanied to the reading?   Are you a teacher, a student, student of poetry, poet, critic, publisher, relative/friend/lover of the reader(s)? None, or all of the above?  Is it because you are curious or excited by the esthetic promise of contemporary poetry?  Maybe it’s that the reader has name recognition, celebrity buzz, in the literary world. What part do you play (or want to play) in that world? Perhaps the poets have the same identity politics as you, so your attendance is a show of support.

Historically the public reading has been poetry’s neglected redheaded stepchild. In classical times Pliny the Younger counseled that one does not read one’s poems in public but hires an actor or a slave (often the same) to do it. The visibility and frequency of readings in the post war era is attributed to the popularity of Dylan Thomas’ highly publicized whirlwind train wreck reading tour in the States at the end of which he drank a dozen whiskeys in a row and promptly fell over dead—the not-so last gasp of neo-romanticism. Yet the idea that celebrity status could be conferred on the poet simply by public performance (and implied scandalous behavior) was certainly appealing to the hungry egos of literature and much more visceral than pages in a book.  Soon auditoriums, bookstores, and coffee houses were among the venues appropriated for the self-aggrandizing personality fests designated as poetry readings and whose value is strictly social.

“Poetry determined by consensus is devalued to the status of politics to be viewed as simply a legitimized social stratagem.”

Poetry readings in general are fraught with expectations. What is the purpose of a poetry reading?  Is it a chance for the poet to recapitulate what is on the page while the audience ruminates on the crux of what they are hearing?  Serious modern poets are, in essence, vanity authors. The general public is largely unaware and uninterested in their poetry.  Many publishers dismiss or reject it. Consequently, the poems are seldom read (despite being published in numerous obscure literary magazines and blogs) or heard, and if they are, it is primarily at poorly attended readings before an audience consisting mainly of fellow poets of similar persuasions, and equally anonymous.  At best, contemporary poetry is for, and by, specialists in the field of modern literature. Then again, one should not forget the predicaments these poets face, individually, socially, and esthetically, that brings their radical poetics into being and at the same time countering the banalization of their innovative turns by those whose only interest is “normalizing” their unconventional stand to make it more palatable to an undereducated audience.  They resist being objectified to satisfy the prejudices of mass education.  For them the poem is not solely words, it is also the poet.

Yet often the biggest problem with poetry readings is with the poets themselves. Poets can be exclusive and clannish, adopting gang-like monikers likely to include the word “School.”  The reason for this lies in the social nature of group cohesion and the difficulty of breaking with that particular in-crowd mindset learned so well in high school.  Poets don’t necessarily attend poetry readings for the poetry but to be seen among their peers and to judge their relative position in the hierarchy of that capricious camaraderie. This social grouping of inclusion and exclusion is not strictly limited to the poetry scene, there are narrow-minded, insular, ingenuous provincials in all arenas of culture.  Provincialism, as such, practices a brand of intentional ignorance, a willfulness that acts as a barrier to anything outside of self-imposed narrow-minded constraints. The poetry reading has become, or perhaps has always been, not so much an opportunity to hear poets read their own words, but a social event to see and be seen, to reinforce a social order of commonly held exclusionary values, what Arendt points to as “the socialization of culture” or its politicization.

Poetry determined by consensus is devalued to the status of politics to be viewed as simply a legitimized social stratagem. This raises the concern that much of contemporary poetry is ideological. Cultural roles then become exchange values to be used and abused for social purposes. For Arendt, in cultural politics, where “there is hierarchy and individualism, there will be tension, suspicion, competition,” the inevitability of us versus them.  Or now versus then.

Then And Now
A nostalgic comparison was made recently, remarking on the difference in attendance at poetry readings, then and now.  Then (late sixties, early seventies), readings were packed, raucous, and viscerally stimulating.  Reading attendance now is staid and sparse, and about as exciting as a Friends meeting.  There can be fewer than a dozen in the audience, or as many as fifty, usually for a name, literary darling, or group reading. Exceptions generally include memorials for widely respected poets, or readings by legends. There were easily 200 in attendance at Joanne Kyger’s memorial reading. Gary Snyder could still fill the pews. So, what happened?

It would be helpful to understand what the differences between then and now are, if now can be viewed as the current situation, always subject to change without notice, and appreciated with the benefit of hindsight. Then, literary events were still largely a rough and tumble male domain and ruled by a top dog pack mentality.  Readings were characterized by much yipping, yapping, and howling (among other canine proclivities) in a male bonding of boisterous agreement or contentious heckling.  Men, meaning boys in long pants, are inclined to mischief and mayhem, to overthrowing the norm as a challenge to hierarchy, pushing the limits and boundaries‒there will be loyalty as well as treachery in seeking the favors of the muse‒offering only perfunctory lip service to propriety.  Attendant was a hierarchal dynamic that demanded engagement, even confrontation, not detachment.

“The most obvious examples of cultural cannibalism are celebrity cults: people, teams, social activists, You Tube influencers.” 

Absent from, or invisible in this arena then were women poets.  That era, however, is marked by the raised consciousness of feminism and the push for inclusion.  It was undoubtedly an uphill climb, but women’s determination should never be underestimated. Currently, women’s leadership role in the literary arts, long overdue, has turned a corner and begun to dominate.  Socially savvy and conscious of the importance of stability in safeguarding group integrity, women strive to administer a governance that is effective and inclusive while still limiting anything deemed a threat (“boy-sterous” behavior?).  As a result of the horizontal structure of female interaction—the dome of inclusion as opposed to the pyramid of hierarchy— a normalization of poetry and poets is underway. The easiest to manage is the standardized, and the standardized is, unfortunately, devoid of the unpredictable.  While it may offer an approach for constancy, it is also a recipe for mediocrity. This is the social dynamic in play, and while no judgement is intended, a critique is implicit.

Art, it should be understood, is not gender specific, as Mary Gilbert’s Ninth Street Women amply illustrates, even though valuation of art had, and continues to have, gender bias.  Yet to speak of art in terms of gender is to speak of socially determined roles superimposed by a largely conservative undereducated society and culture.  The artist is inherently eccentric, orbiting the center to retain a unique perspective. The modern artist by necessity must resist socialization and evade the grasp of convention and conventionalizing. The artist as non-conformist is perhaps a romantic notion, yet success has a corrosive effect on the authenticity of art and artist when it is given social value beyond the actuality of its purpose.

Although art is the seed bed of culture for the use of all, the idea that art is democratic is erroneous. Socialized art acquires the value of property and as such is commodified for consumption. It is in the nature of mass society to devour or consume as an autophagic process the products of culture.  The most obvious examples of cultural cannibalism are celebrity cults: people, teams, social activists, You Tube influencers.  And that particular shine rubs off on all the products of culture. An initial valuation is not so much the worth of the art produced but its social significance provided by the status of the artist in the hierarchy of social standing.

The Provinces
There is no doubt that a shift in the social dynamic is underway in the poetry patch. The reading has now become a gauge of popularity, credibility, and relevance yet of limited literary value. As an example, from Black Bart Country (the very definition of the provinces), a reading series of long standing and solid if not stolid reputation featured a regional literary darling.  On the same bill, a poet and translator of no mean accomplishment but unlikely to be appreciated by the marginally educated, and a local fellow whose idea of poetry was torture and be tortured.

The experience was, as can be imagined, dreadful, but still instructive.  The majority among the three dozen or so in attendance were writing professionals of one kind or another, including retired liberal arts professors, creative writing post grads, workshop gurus and their acolytes, and various aggregations of wannabes, poseurs, and has-beens.  As well, there were a few talented individuals trying to maintain a brave face in the onslaught of gush and pretense.  But turn your back and there’s always the glint of knives.

For the most part what was presented was warmed-over pablum given gravitas by politically correct cliché, barely original or anywhere approaching weighty deep thought wrestled from the demon within.  Sadly, nothing but the shallow bleats of platitude were to be heard.

As was noted,

  • The syntax of lists truncates music.
  • When did the poem have to end with a serious brow?
  • Attempts of attempts and scented products.
  • TV room staccato dissonance.
  • One red carrot accomplishment far outstripping his popular recognition.
  • Narrative for the sake of narrative.
  • The lyrics trail off into understatement.
  • Words without relation to music.
  • The drone of anecdote is all.
  • Nasal no lilt challenged by the page.
  • Matter of fact practiced inanity phoning it in.

These types of readings seem to end with a sigh, like at the conclusion of a church service, serious bordering on sanctimonious.  And then everyone lines up to shake hands or greet the pastor, in this case the poet(s).  The wines and vegan gluten free petite fours are a reminder of what an art gallery owner once observed, that “Poets always bring food.”  The thought then, is it like inviting ants to a picnic?  As demonstrated by the jolly glad handing, the reading, despite its lack of overt literary value, was apparently a success. Nevertheless, although invoked, the muse did not make an appearance.

“There is a paucity of real world knowledge of poets and poetry outside the immediate or allied social groupings of various poetry mafias, networks, clans, and workshop cadres.” 

Poetry Goddesses
Aside from the poetry reading, another notable indication of a shift in postwar American literature that most workshop professionals and academics ignore, or are unaware of, was the resurfacing and recognition of the legacy of nonaffiliated poets and writers from the first postwar period of the 20’ and 30’s by a younger generation of radical American poets who were featured in Donald Allen’s The New American Poetry (1960). In an effort to distinguish the field of poets from each other across the vast span of esthetics and geography encompassed by US poetry, Allen lumped them by region and/or aesthetic predilection so that New York poets were distinguished from The Beats or The Black Mountain School, San Francisco Renaissance, The Holy Barbarians, and so on.  While this certainly afforded a map of the distribution of artistic nodes and inclinations, it revealed the impossibility of a unified American poetics. Poetry thus subdivided by region serves to isolate and insulate as a characteristic of provincialism.  Allen’s anthology recognized the homegrown independent poets working outside the sanctions of academia and with, at times, a revolutionary fervor to upend the pretentious fussiness of a baroque Anglo literary hegemony.  An antagonism arose over the values and procedures of American lit, conservative and radical.  Again, this was brought about by the social nature of hierarchy and class, and what is acceptable to the primarily bourgeoise arbiters of taste.  Apparently, there are always barbarians at the gate (now known as zombies) as there will always be trend setting elites (vampires).  The elite have their suppositions as the barbarians have their actuality as the source of cultural friction. Or as Robert Graves’ The White Goddess would have it, court poets, i.e., the lap dogs of convention, vie with feral goddess (outlier) poets. However, in this era, rather than having male poets (mediums) speak for them as muses, the goddesses are writing their own poetry.

Two such poetry goddesses made their way to Black Bart Country on the tail end of a cross country reading tour which coincided with a rather frightful spell of wet weather in the region. Despite the stormy conditions, the reading, held in a letterpress art workspace, was quite well attended.  The poets, one of whom has been on the forefront of publishing women’s writing since the early seventies, and the other, an indefatigable author and promoter of women’s solidarity, were well received by the two dozen plus in attendance, a goodly turn out considering the damaging winter storm.  With notable exceptions, telling was the lack of representatives from the larger poetry community who might have benefited from exposure to the wisdom and experience not to mention the cutting edge poetics these independent poets had to offer. And that absence represents a poignant example of the insularity fostered by provincialism.  A regional darling of debatable literary distinction merits a large turn out because it is a social event more than one that emphasizes excellence and artistic integrity.  There is a paucity of real world knowledge of poets and poetry outside the immediate or allied social groupings of various poetry mafias, networks, clans, and workshop cadres. Poetry loses its way when guided by ambitions of social nepotism and in-crowd celebrity.

Submitted to the membership by The Parole Officer

In Part II of Provincialism and the Gentrification of Anglo-American Poetry

“The gravest threat to American literature is the English major cum English professor/teacher cum workshop professional cum arts administrator as their pedagogic mission is to pigeonhole and gentrify the genuine.”


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On The Use Of Euphemism

 Carl Wendt took note that the swim consisted of a lot of information about the proportions of oxygen to hydrogen, and a lot of that information consisted of lists, of coincidences, of lists of coincidences, and that he was doing the Australian crawl when he wasn’t doing his favorite, the breast stroke.

His finger was poised to depress the doorbell over which a brass plate bore the name R. Granahan.  Professor emeritus Richard Granahan had a duplex over in the Saint Anne’s neighborhood.  At that moment the dingy white door with a large dusty square of pebbled glass taking up the top half opened and Marguerite Sayrah emerged, blinking twice before realizing who was standing there.  Then she made an unpleasant face and brushed passed him with a grunt of disapproval.  She was followed by a short round man with an orange billed Giants ball cap and a patchy black beard.  He was dressed entirely in black, except for his orange Converse sneakers.  He kept his head down to avoid looking directly at Wendt.

     Wendt shrugged and let himself in.  He followed the hallway down to Dick’s bedroom.  Diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the old man was given six months to live.  That had been nine months ago.  Dick Granahan, prize winning poet, scholar, and infamous lothario, had been Wendt’s faculty advisor at State during his ill fated attempt at a post-graduate degree.  As Dick was also fond of a hearty brew, they often went for a drink at The Rustic Union, a pub within walking distance of campus.  Granahan’s graduate level Advanced Poetry Seminar met there on occasion.  What he called his “meet the masters” class.  He would invite well-known literary figures to dinner and drinks in the company of his students.  He discontinued it after a while because, as he said, “there was just too much disappointment.”

Then there was what became known as the “Grannyhand” scandal.  Apparently, RG, as some people referred to him, had offered extra credit to some of the female students in his undergraduate Advanced Poetry class in exchange for the rendering of a particular sexual favor.  Grannyhand seemed to say it all.

Close to retirement, Dick quietly resigned his position at State and the University just as quietly swept it under the rug.  Not long afterwards, Granahan was offered the position as head of the writing department at New Arts Inc., the chain of liberal arts diploma mills with campuses in most big American cities.  At New Arts Inc., Frisco, or NAIF, sexual relations between staff and students were not unheard of or particularly frowned upon.

The Grannyhand affair was not without its backlash or consequence, however.  Dick’s wife, Jane, divorced him.  His only son, Austin, refused to speak to him.  And his daughter, Marla, possibly exhibiting some of her father’s predilections, became a lesbian porn queen.  It had been a rough time for his old friend and Wendt was one of the few who stood by him.  Through the odd coincidence of chance and habit, they would get together regularly on Tuesdays.   Even so, it was not quite a month of Tuesdays since he’d dropped by.  Watching his old friend die was not at all comfortable.

Richard Granahan was a profane little man with a slab of snow white hair slapped across a wide forehead and a nicotine stained cookie duster below the bloated and pocked bulb of broken blood vessels.  When RG died, and that might be any day, they could roll him up, attach a handle to him, and he would be no larger than a moderate sized suitcase.  But even now, bedridden, he seemed quite alive.  At least his hand was, under the sheets.  Pummeling?  Or grabbing?

“That’s ok, Dick, you don’t have to give me a demo.  I’m quite familiar with how it’s done.”

The shrunken old man startled, pulled as he was by two dissimilar impulses, surprise and ecstasy.  Surprise won because it was more immediate.  “Wendt, you crazy son of a bitch, you could have given me a heart attack!”

“Why don’t we just say that I saved you from another one of those little deaths?”

Dick, laughing now and relieved for the distraction, extended his hand in greeting.

“Hope you don’t mind if I pass,” Wendt said pulling a chair closer to bedside, “I know where that’s been.”

Dick’s face glowed red as the big smile that broke across his face rendered him speechless.

“So, been practicing long?”

“At my age sex with anyone but myself would just be plain embarrassing.  After you reach a certain place in life, your cock is your only friend.  You and it against the world!  To my amazement I can still get it up.  Long enough to do the job!”

“Ow! Please, Dick!  Too much information!”

“At one point I figured why not get that momentary pleasure that still puts a sparkle in my eye.  I want to die with that sparkle in my eye.  I work on it daily.”

“So that’s why you were rowing with one oar.”

“Right, yanking the crank.”

“Stretching the slinky.”

“Choking the doughboy.”

“I always heard it as choking the chicken.”

“Yes, that’s fairly common, as is pounding your pud.”

“Whatever a pud is.”

“I’ve heard that pud is the diminutive for pudding.”

“I guess that makes sense, in its own odd way.  As much as baby batter makes sense.”

“On the other hand, it could very well be a shortened form of pudendum.”

“Pounding your pudendum?  I can see why it was shortened.  But I thought that pudendum applied to female genitalia.”

“It has come to be applied almost exclusively to the female but it applies to the male as well.  Interesting that the Latin root for the word is the verb ‘to be ashamed.’   So you can see that self gratification has a long history of disapproval.”

“Beating your meat, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphors, doesn’t beat around the bush.”

“Clearing the pipe is also quite graphic but quotidian.”

“I was always partial to flogging the log.”

“Well, yes, that does have a kind of assonant alliteration that is stock and trade in these kinds of euphemisms. Like buffing the banana or grappling the gremlin.”

“Lobbing a gob.”

“Collaring the cleric, testing the testicles, yes, like that.”

“Venting the ventricle, pumping the python.”

“Have you ever heard punishing Percy?  That goes a ways back.”

“Right, like playing pocket pool.”

“And there are those that take on the attributes of labor like varnishing the flag pole or adjusting the antenna.”

“Basting the ham.”

“Painting the ceiling.”

“Warming up the engine, restarting the rotisserie.”

“Lubricating the lance.  I imagine that has quite a provenance.”  Granahan had started giggling, his eyes moist with delight.

“True, jollying the Johnson is more contemporary.  As is jacking junior.”

“I believe that the British have it as wanking the willie, or just wanking which is rather pedestrian for a tribe that prides itself on its poetry, don’t you think?”

“Don’t they also say pulling the taffy?”

“Boffing the bishop.”

“How about fingering the skin flute?”

“No, I think flute refers to another feature of that nether anatomy.”

“I was thinking flute like something someone would blow.”

“Of course. Then there are the ones that refer to other species to aid in their subterfuge.  Stroking the snake. Taming the shrew. Tugging the slug.”

“Wagging the walrus.  Bending the badger might also be one.”

“Spanking the monkey.”

“Oiling the one-eyed eel.”

“That’s rather exotic but since we’re being aquatic, how about releasing the tadpole torpedoes?”

“Goosing the frog?”

“Hmm, that has a rather cross species perversity to it.”

“Opening a worm of cans.”  Wendt smiled at the interpolation, but Dick didn’t seem to notice, intent as he was now on what had become a competition.

“Manhandling the midget, tenderizing the tube steak.”

“Stretching the meat sock.”

“Waxing the carrot.”

“Twanging your magic twanger.”

“Practicing the secret handshake. Also referred to as performing a sleight of hand.”

“Pulling the wool over old one-eye.”

“That’s only if you’re not circumcised.”

“Good point.”

“Then for the educated man there’s always erecting a singular proposition.”

“Oh, in that case, fleshing out the future.”

“Enabling the opposable advantage.”

“The precious thing hard to obtain.”

“What’s not hard? It’s available day and night.”

“It’s Jung.  The infantile ego and all that crap.”

“Well, that takes all the fun out of it.”

“You asked.”

“Well, how about this: stealing fire.”

“Exactly what I was getting at.”

“Grasping the awful truth.”

“Dowsing the abyss.  For the existentialist wanker.”

“Quickening the pulse.”

“Ordering the hors d’oeuvres, whisking the marinade.”

“Restocking the inventory.  For the neo-Darwinians.”

“Slapping your pappy, mastering your domain.”

“Shaking hands with the master.”

“Now you’re getting down to the truth!” Granahan insisted, animated by the amusement of their word play.

“Grappling with the love vine.”

“That’s fine if you think you’re Tarzan.  But then who doesn’t?”

“Owning up to your onanism.”

“Tagging the bed sheets.”

“Going blind on a date with yourself.”

The old man shook with a paroxysm of laughter, gasping for breath like a wicked rag doll.

“Shit, Granahan, you ok?”

Eyes watering, a smile full of yellow gnashers, Dick nodded.  “It’s laughter you have to watch out for.  It’ll kill ya.”  He wheezed out a few more chuckles.

“So who were you wanking on?”

Granahan hesitated.  “Who was I what?”

“Come on, Granahan, who did you have across your knees in the fold-out spread?  Wait a minute!  I ran into her on my way out!”

Granahan’s mug was the model of sheepishness.  “Yeah, Marguerite Sayrah.”

“Ok, I’m beginning to see a pattern.  Wasn’t Kay one of your students at State?”

“Yeah, fuck, Wendt, you’re on the right track.  No need to spell it out.”

“A sister in the silly putty sorority of the grannyhand.  I bet there’s even a blog devoted to the posting and discussion of their experiences, barbeques, bitch sessions, travels to Cancun where they seek out old retired English professors and fulfill the old farts’ fantasies.  Though I’ll bet Kay doesn’t belong to that group or read their blog.”

“I’ve done some things I’m not very proud of.  I’m ashamed of my anti-social transgressions.”

“Well, yes, you did teach creative writing.”

Granahan ignored him.  “And that’s one chapter in my life I would do over if I could.  I’m not going to get the chance.  I feel bad enough about it.  You don’t have to rub my face in it.”

Wendt pulled the half-pint bottle from his inside pocket and held it up to Dick.  “Here, maybe this’ll give you a lift out of your self pity.  It’ll help with that mealy taste in your mouth.”

“Jesus, you really are trying to kill me, aren’t you?

Wendt shrugged and took a bite of firewater. “Headache cure.”

“Now that, on the other hand, is just unhealthy.  Wendt, it’s not even noon!”

“I eat at noon.  Now’s the time for a drink.”

“You on a tear?  You look a little rumpled.”

Wendt told him the tale of his eviction from Dorian’s couch.  “This is just going to be one of those days that’s longer than twenty four hours.”

“How is old Dorian these days?”

“Just like you, dying.”

“Yes, and the vultures are circling.”

“Speaking of which, what’s going on with Kay?  She just renewing old attachments?”

“Who? Oh yes, Marguerite. Very funny.”  Granahan sighed, “She’s under the illusion that she’s my literary executor.”

“Who was the little guy with her?”

“A poet, I can’t remember his name.  He is quite technically adept.  Which is why I might question his qualifications as a man of letters.  They’re different realities, you know.”

“So like Igor to her Victor Frankenstein?”

“They want me to post my thoughts and poems on this blog they created for me.  They didn’t like the name I came up with, but they weren’t going to get me to do it otherwise.  It’s called With My Last Dying Blog.”  Granahan dragged a swivel arm table with a laptop attached to it directly in front of him.   “I’ve got this set up, see.  It’s supposed to be some sort of cross media engagement of the arts.  So I’m to type in some old poems or the couple of new ones, the ones that still dribble out.  Or I recycle some of my old essays.  Or lectures.  I can say pretty much anything I damn well please.  People can comment on what I say in this comment box, here.”  He moved the arrow to point at the small rectangular window to one side of the page on the screen.  “I call it the snark tank.  Lot of mudslinging and mud wrestling goes on in there.  But what do you expect?  They’re just kids.”

“Ill-mannered children jockeying for status in the eyes of their elders,” Wendt volunteered.

The old man sighed, weary.  “Some days I don’t feel like saying anything.  Then I get a flood of queries asking me if I’m ok when in reality they’re  wondering if that last post I put up was virtually the last one and am I now just a flat line.”  Dick widened his eyes in mock disbelief.  “And the sycophants!  It’s like having a whole meadow of sheep lined up to kiss your ass with their bleating inane servility!  The last couple of times I’ve posted I’ve been saying things like ‘Get a life!’  Or ‘fuck off!’  That’s why Marguerite and Igor were here.  Because I was being uncooperative and ruining her expectations of me.”

“What’s the big deal?  You get to ensure your legacy.”

Dick spat “Legacy” as if the word had a bad taste.  “I’m a fossil.”

“So you’re immortal chalk.  Why not lay down some tracks, let the future generations figure out what you’re all about?”

“I’d rather jerk off.” As soon as he spoke the words, Dick’s look of consternation and dread prompted Wendt to glance back over his shoulder.  A tall shadow in a religious habit had materialized in the doorway.  There was something very unfeminine in the angles of the face peeking out from the starched frame of the wimple.

“It’s ok, sister, he’s a friend of mine,” Dick called anxiously as the nun’s shadow melted away.

“What happened to Paloma?”  Paloma, a busy little Filipino woman, had been Dick’s hospice worker from the beginning.

“I don’t know.  One day this nun shows up.  And says she’s one of the volunteers at the Hospice Center and would be taking Paloma’s place until they found a replacement for her.  Maybe she went back to Manila.  It’s downright creepy.  I went to Catholic schools growing up in Marquette.  All my teachers were nuns.  Do you have any idea what that does to you?”

“Maybe.  I attended a nursery school and kindergarten run by two French nuns of an Irish order.  The Sisters of Perpetual Redundancy.  I learned to speak a little French and dislike the Irish.”

“You know the problem with having nuns as teachers?  You fixate on saintly women and end up with one, and everybody knows you don’t want to live with a saint.  Let me tell you, I know from experience. We used to fear and hate them.  We had this joke.  If penguins are flightless birds, what are nuns?

Wendt shrugged, the bottle to his lips

“Fuckless chicks!”

The nun was having a cigarette leaning against the stucco balustrade of Granahan’s stoop.  The nun was a man.

“Got a cigarette?”

The nun reached deep into his habit for a crumpled pack and shook one out.

Wendt accepted a light. “So what’s the story with the nun getup?”

The nun scoffed a laugh and told the story.  Granahan’s hospice worker, Paloma, had complained to the parish priest that Dick was doing lewd things in front of her and she was worried that if Granahan kept at it, he would go to Hell.  She liked her job and was fond of Mr. Dick, as she called him.  She just wanted to know how she could get him to stop. Father Russo, the parish priest, knew the Granahans quite well. As a young family they often attended services together, and he had counseled Dick and Jane before their divorce so he was aware of a lot of the intimate details of their lives.  He knew that Granahan had attended a parochial school run by nuns as a child.  He decided to try and shame him by replacing Paloma with a nun, but he didn’t want to subject the good sisters to such wanton display.  Father Russo knew that he was a performance artist who included a skit about a nun in his repertoire.  The man owed the old priest a favor.  So he garbed up and roamed the halls looking fearsome.

“Hasn’t helped, has it?”

“No, he’s still greasing the mongoose.”

“Cuffing the koala.”

Pat Nolan’s poems, prose, and translations have appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in North America as well as in Europe and Asia.  He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry and two novels.  His most recent books of poetry are So Much, Selected Poems Volume II 1990-2010 (Nualláin House, Publishers, 2019) and the thousand marvels of every moment, a tanka collection (Nualláin House, Publishers, 2018). He also maintains Parole, the blog of the New Black Bart Poetry Society.  His serial fiction, Ode To Sunset, A Year In The Life Of American Genius, is available for perusal at  He lives among the redwood wilds along the Russian River in Northern California.

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Blue Suede Shoes Redux: The Specimen Issue

Legend has it that that Keith Abbott joined the mimeograph underground by liberating a ream of paper from the WWSC English Department supply closet, acquiring a quire of stencils (one may say that now), and finding someone with a mimeograph machine.  The end result was a poetry magazine, Blue Suede Shoes, begun in Bellingham, Washington, relocated to the Monterey Peninsula, and then to Berkeley.  Abbott embraced the mimeo magazine mystique with all its rebel outlaw underground overtones as a far seeing statement of a generation redefining the literary culture by pointing out as risible the inconsistencies of the Anglo-American academic establishment.

In the early 1970’s Blue Suede Shoes published a representative affiliation of poets in the  San Francisco Bay Area who were mostly not native (Steven Lavoie, a notable exception) and from out of state—part of the youth migration to the Bay Area, a center of attraction through Beat notoriety, university influence, and artistic ferment as an alternative counterculture Mecca to New York City  (which had its own rough and tumble counterculture and poetry scene on the Lower East Side although the light there was different).  Many of the writers associated with Blue Suede Shoes as contributors were west coasters, nonetheless, and privileged by their own particular coastal sensibilities as exemplified by its editors, an urbane Hollywood scion Steve Carey from the LA area, and an erudite quick witted Keith Abbott from the Tacoma suburbs.  Keith provided the technical knowhow and enthusiasm for literary mayhem, and Steve provided the astute expertise of an unerring literary eye (or is that ear?).  Steve was dialed in to the Ed Sanders/Ted Berrigan radical scene as well, hence the smattering of New York School writers whose work appeared in Blue Suede Shoes.   Keith had Northwest sympathies and associations among whom were Richard Brautigan, Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen, and master printer and poet Clifford Burke to complete an amalgam that worked well in that it provided a bi-coastal esthetic that was current and well informed about the leading edge of American poetry, effectively side-stepping the baroque inclinations of academics and English majors.  Both subscribed to the snake oil con man myth of the American West (think W.C. Fields or The Marx Brothers), and were bent on perpetuating hoaxes and punking the establishment modeled on the anti-art example of Duchamp and Dada.

Issue #1 was printed in Bellingham in 1970.  The Organized Religion issue was either #4 or #6, both produced in 1971, as was #5, Bob Hope In A Buick, a selection of poems by Pat Nolan.  Issue #7 was a post-Smith Going Backward selection of poems by Steve Carey titled Fleur de Lis, also published in 1971, and concurrently with Abbott’s poetry chapbook, Thick and Thin as #8. As many little poetry magazines of its day, Blue Suede Shoes burned bright and burned fast.  In 1972 Abbott collaborated with British poet and artist Opal L. Nations, the Rupert Sheldrake of poetry and editor of a London based quasi-surrealist punk pop lit rag, to publish Blue Suede Shoes Present Strange Faeces Number Nine as BSS #11.  The next four issues, through #15, were comprised of Abbott’s poetry, prose and inspired miscellany.

A partial list of contributors to the dozen plus issues would include Ray DiPalma, Dennis Kelly, Jim Gustafson, Bob Heman, Bruce Andrews, Mary Norbert Korte, Jim Brodey, Barbara Barracks, Opal L. Nations, Clifford Burke, Ron Padgett, Richard Snyder, Steven Lavoie, Avron Hoffman, Jack Anderson, Tom Raworth, Michael Sowl, Curtis Faville, Bill Bathurst, Aram Saroyan, Glen Baxter, David Gitin, Larry Fagin, Tom Clark, Pat Nolan, Michael Sean Lazarchuk, and Paul Violi, with cameo guest appearances by Jean Follain, Max Jacob, Apple Betty, Spike Drihourst, Ana Deal, Robert Frost, and Magic Eddy.

It was enough to make James Schuyler sit up and take notice, as he remarks in his March 1971 letter to Trevor Winkfield: Have you ever exchanged magazines with Keith Abbott? He is, or was, Blue Suede Shoes. I like a lot of his poems—sort of West Coast Padgett, with a lot of the dilution that might imply—also someone he’s published named Pat Nolan, who’s a little closer to being a West Coast Larry Fagin; or perhaps is to Abbott what Fagin is to Padgett? Only different. . . .” (Just The Things, Selected Letters of James Schuyler Turtle Point Press, 2004).

Following a two year hiatus, due undoubtedly to the machinations of relocation (Berkeley?), BSS returned as the bane of librarians with the dreaded Decimal issues.  Keith’s pleasure, perverse or not, in Coyote pandemonium is obvious in the bibliographic havoc caused by the decimal issues. In 1974 BSS .099 consisted of a selection of Abbott’s poems titled Erase Words (published in an expanded edition by Blue Wind Press in 1977).  BSS .049 was a back to back book issue, Ace sci-fi style, of Face by Michael-Sean Lazarchuk and Chocolate Winter by Michael Sowl.  BSS .001 was published in 1975 as Being Alone With A Girl, concept and illustrations by Opal L. Nations.  According to the inventory list it was “the most notorious” issue, a cut-up of a found 50’s dating manual and illustrated by Nations.  BSS .314159265 (the pi issue), with covers and illustrations by Opal L. Nations, consisted of compilations of texts and commentary by the readers (real or imagined) on Being Alone With A Girl (BSS .001) and for clarity also titled Being Alone With A Girl.  BSS .5 was naturally the First Manifesto of Syllogism issue, likely candidate as a riposte to the Organized Religion issue.  BSS .986 which has the distinction of being the first publication of Steve Carey’s legendary “Rarity Planes” (not to be mistaken for one of his other legendary poems, “AP”) was the Fill-in The Blanks (or The Misplaced Decimal) issue.  And BSS .017 had the says-it-all title of The Dripping Dagger Dolly issue.

A mimeo mag in those days was an establishment of presence as well as a quasi samizdat cooperative publishing scheme as a node in a network easily connected by the postal service.  The only instant back then was coffee. Instant (online) publishing was the stuff of science fiction.  At its beginnings mimeograph was the tool of war resistors and conscientious objectors whose example of dissident struggle was adopted by marginalized non-establishment writers.  It was a cheap, easy to use, portable means of communicating an opposing point of view.  Some mimeo magazine publishers became quite adept at consistently producing a readable respectable product over a period of years.  For the most part, however, longevity of a small mimeo magazine was mercifully short—five years was an eternity for a mimeo poetry press.  What was accomplished, however, was a visibility among a particular coterie of artists and writers.  That was the fate of Blue Suede Shoes.  After 1976, it ceased publication.  A bare bones inventory list of Blue Suede Shoes as a pdf file is available here.

Following the publication of Erase Words by Blue Wind Press, Abbott was invited to read at The Poetry Project in the fall of 1978.  While in New York City, Keith reestablished personal contact with his old partner-in-crime and co-editor, Steve Carey, prompting a review of past glory and “why the hell not, let’s do a nostalgia issue. Yeah! Call it ‘the specimen issue’.  We’ll invite all our favorite poets to contribute a poem.  And if they don’t respond we’ll write one in their stead. . .as a free editorial service.  Why not just cut out the middle poet and write them all ourselves, using their rhetorical personas, of course.”  Of course.

Thus a plan was hatched to get back into the literary mayhem business and return to the days of audacious anarchy, a plan that unfortunately would never be realized.  Not that an attempt wasn’t made.  Literary history is fortunate that some of that work survived as stray pages of poetry and copies of letters. These documents arrived at the Society’s office a number of years ago as part of an archival acquisition consisting of odds and ends of manuscripts, copies of typewritten letters, and copies of copies of various ephemera passed around the poetry backchannels where deals are made and knives are sharpened.  Because it is mostly Carey’s side of the correspondence with Abbott, much is left to be inferred.  As exampled below, work was being done to provide the specimens of writing.

In a letter dated 12/26/78 Steve reports his progress

 Dear Keith –

Well the dust has settled partially settled on you and Pat’s triumph and NYC is back to its ball-freezing self….

I’m on a plane in a few hours for Christmas on the Coast.

Here’s a couple of items for BSS’s specimen issue.  I’ve been trying to finish off a fake Berrigan poem but it doesn’t look like I’ll get it done till after the first of the year.  Needless to say Anne Waldman doesn’t know she wrote the work I sent you…I think it’s a good idea to put the “C” magazine archives bit on the end so as to lay the blame and liable suits where it belongs – to the massive lap of I mean of Massa Ted and Lady Alice.

Hope these get to you in time.
My love to you and yours. . . .



An “address” to the reader explains the likely and facetious inspiration for “the specimen issue”. 


Due to the influx of mail, engendered by the fab ariticle written about in or appearing in Tri-Quarterly’s biggies about editing little magazines, we felt it incumbent upon ourselves to do another issue so as to satisfy the demands of our ever voracious public.

The single request for a specimen issue sparked this specimen issue off.  This request which is reproduced somewhere in the magazine. . . .

Calls to our faithful went out.  Letters and mailgrams were written and sent.

The response was staggering.  As you can see by the boastful cover, the firmament of American poetry responded.

Dated 3/3/79 Steve updates with a quick handwritten note

Dear Keith—

Here’s a couple more hoaxes for Blue Sued Sue.  Harris Schiff and I wrote the Alice Notley piece.  The Berrigan I did alone (except for a few Berrigan books from which I was able to maintain compositional integrity by employing Ted’s very methods).

A Snyder poem?  I’ll try it, but if you think I’m going to sit on the floor in perfect lotus and write it you’ve got another thing coming.  Do I have to burn incense?

Hope the issue is still on—not abandoned or already completed or anything perfectly reasonable like that.

See you soon. . .

More on the way


When I had a crush on Simone Weil I was blighted
the mere fact of her existence was a hideous artifice
an affront to my favorite deity
                                  the god of lust.
He stands outraged where the moon
                                  fell on the stoop
his kilt billowing akin to my skirt.
He wants attention or her wants to be left alone
or legacy.
               When we pass it is good passing.
He started late, vows excellence forever.
Table cloths       Bocce ball    I forgot his last name
why did she do that anyway?
                             Don’t tell me the truth
I like being in a state of being pilled and an air of hustling
so I can sweet talk the man at the fish store
who knows everyone and gives away nothing
but yesterday he said to me that History teaches
that fishin’ is constant
he confessed this ecstatically showing his wisdom tooth
would you please kiss me
not me I kiss the vermillion specter
will you join me often sitting on ass true buggery light?
Have mercy. Have mercy, baby
                             sick tonight on mercy beer
I am the squeek wicker kiss of chair when you sit
and when you lay I lie to sweeten the news what’s broken
my ass in the aria
                   going to my world.
You dream a week and sleep it off, the harelip scatsinger
with a problem back, Daddy,
                             save me a donut.
Fuckall is a name I have for myself.  He says
lame excuse.  Under your tongue looks like a dork.
I don’t know I got thrown off a horse at Santa Anita.
The colors are so much brighter now that I’m deaf.
Among dilettantes I am lapse into not that song.
I am a verbal agreement to be obstinate.
     “I shot the sheriff
                        but I did not shoot the butcher. . .”
I was in Colorado & I can prove it Ma’am
I swear by my nipples which god only knows everyone has Ma’am
tho mine might be more titillating than Godzilla’s or Hitler’s
but get your Disney off my desert please Ma’am

                                      -- Alice Notley

In a letter dated July 31, 1979, Steve reminds (or warns) Keith that Ted Berrigan is headed to the Bay Area.

Dear Keith –

By the time you get this, the monster Irish bozo who wrote the thing and asked me to send it to you will most likely be in your immediate vicinity.  This is Ted’s Steve Carey poem – not a bad job, I must say, though of course in no way comparable to my Ted Berrigan poem.

I’m working on the Padgett and Whalen works you sent me.  They seem pretty much on the money as is, but you know me. . .I’ll do anything for a pretty face.  I’ve so far got a couple pages of Ronny (Oklahoma Crude”) Padgett nee Walton saying the same thing over and over while debasing his brain-casing and begging the indulgence of Dear Reader.  I just love it when Ron does that.  Philip I’ll just air out a little or maybe just take him up and off the wall a few times.  I’m not sure.  In any case, as soon as the mosquitoes give me a few minutes to myself (it’s no good typing and swatting at the same time: you end up with neo-passé Concretist Poetry), I’ll send them on to you to do with as you please.

 Here is Ted Berrigan’s parody of Steve’s poetry:


          for Peter Whalen

here I am at 92 a.m. in The Woman’s House of Detention
the air is hot? inky? fiction? no, heat, on the way to pomp
directionless device at corner is no help AND
so I drink down some Irish Milk fuck Scotch both this
          kind of day AND
light smoke.  The streets, regrouped tonight because of
a.) a Bedouin b.)$512.00, lack of & c.) my yellow cup,
“I’m the girl in the yellow cup, cup”
Look is it clitoral as toothpicks on my porcelain
Sink mine, yours, whoever.  So I essay
NuYorican grimace (i.e. smile) also thuds (grimace) twitches
(snarl) polarity-hop (scratch balls) cough.
                   The my enemy of Harris Schiff is on
later but now well, now,
     Who would have thought that I’d be here?  Manahatta?
Not good old A Girl, not Madame Backward, nor Cindy, Della
Berater, Miss Energy-Going-Backward, certainly not Frieda Disgust 
              The my enemy of Harris Schiff says
“I think I’m going out of my head” the bank is closed too just
Like they might as well be anyway.  ANYWAY.
My poet thoughts go through my heads:  Nook: Equals: Aging: Seal:
Divorce-ing: Married: Sand: & Box: Sandbox.  “Well,
We don’t have to go anywhere.”
I am impending tizzy sickly pale o’ercast with bump! When
Will I be admirable or deplorable ambition, Dramamine provided
No Extra Charge?
Alone and nondescript Tomcat Mountains
Only dug at traffic light by traffic light, I slip softly into
               Face River. . .
“you call that home?”  You bet your ass I call that Home you fuck!
The world’s Riff-Song flows through my lunch-pail.

--Steve Carey

Here is an excerpt from Steve’s Berrigan poem modeled on Ted’s post-Sonnet Calder-esque “Tambourine Life” and the Things To Do poems (it goes on for three more hilarious eerily accurate pages):


for Tommy Finnigan, Danny O’Toole, 
Paddy Sullivan, Tom Dooley, Flan
O’Flaherty, Bump Mulligan, Alan
Dugan, Rick Michael Duffy, Brother
Mickey, Jim Kennedy, Brian Patrick
Aloysius Feeney, Duff Hanrahan &
Teddy Cassidy


           Dear Miss,


I wake up

                           each strong morning


                                the unlikely sight


                     on the shores

           of this

                           the 51st state

It is important

                     to wait

           when it is most

                                how you say


     That is not to say warm

                Not now



It’s Bump & Run

                           with today’s mail

                providing you can “read” the field


Pepsi, pill, paper

                           One must be sure footed

                                to use the stutter step



The Philip Whalen imitation is apparently a collaborative effort as is the Ron Padgett spoof though who contributed what is unknown.


oh where are my manic ambergris
here they are right where
the Lakavosatra Sutras said they were
i.e. “when the true Buddha comes there will be
     rejoicing even under the cooking pot lids”
Swami Upshadacinx, V. 2., ed.
Vivian Satisflux, tr. Dutton
Edwin-Jones Forkwith, Bodley Head

gork vap slurp
under my cooking pots nada
broke again i.e. broke again i.e.
we see under our lids the same
as we see out? over? in? through? up? Down? Our eyes

              “. . . . .ain’t seen nothing yet.”

how come everyone hands me the
universe & I gotta explain it all as if

cows unwind around where a dead cow was once

--Philip Whalen


I don’t know why I can’t
I was going to say
Think today by then I
I was already
This little man in my
Was going to say mind
But he’s really not er
He sort of speaks out of the clouds
little pieces of space ship raining down

-- Ron Padgett

The supporting documents, which include copies of the letters and the copies of extant takeoffs of Michael McClure, Ann Waldman, Ed Dorn, Robert Creeley, a Classical English Shepherd collaboration between Ted and Steve, a collaboration between Creeley and Edgar Allen Poe, and the entirety of Carey’s  Ted Berrigan poem are available here as pdf files: Specimen Correspondence (2 pages), Specimen Poems & Letters (18 pages)

In the early years of the mimeo revolution, small poetry mags proliferated like mushrooms after a rainstorm.  Pat Nolan’s the end (& variations thereof) was one of them, modeled on Blue Suede Shoes in its literary flippancy, appropriation and impersonation. Michael Sean Lazarchuk’s Baloney Street from Ventura, and Famous, an associated magazine, published out of Oakland by Steven Lavoie were also  70’s offerings.  And magazines published by Darrel Gray and George Mattingly out of Iowa smuggled the Actualist phenomena to the Bay Area, yet another good time hoax bought into by the clueless.

By the late seventies, however, the mood had changed. In the Bay Area, as likely elsewhere, there was a serious epidemic. Quite a few writers came down with serious. The forces of repression, this time with collared shirts and ivy league privilege, are always serious.  Inevitably the pervading anal neurosis took the fun out of everything.  Maybe the specimen issue was already dead on arrival by 1979 and was nothing more than the spark created when the like-minded high five, yet it was enough to exercise (exorcise) the vagaries of being a poet at the end of the decade with the crack of wit, the snort of snark, the glee of anarchy.  The subversive flame of mimeo resistance by the obscure and marginalized was kept alive into the eighties with Steven Lavoie and Pat Nolan’s Life Of Crime, Newsletter of the Black Bart Poetry Society, and Caveman, a similar scurrilous low tech production from NYC’s Lower East Side.  Now however blogs are the mimeo of the digital age so that anyone and everyone can post their opinion, right, wrong, or indifferent, and not get ink on their hands.  Present company not excluded.

Submitted to the membership by the Parole Officer 1/6/2020





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René Taupin’s André Salmon

André Salmon was important to the “Objectivists” because he, “like his friend Guillaume Apollinaire,” was among “the generation which devolved from Symbolism.” The methods which they “devolved” were similar to that of the “Objectivists.”

Symbolism discarded, André Salmon now wrote poetry which was neither dreamy nor sentimental, but a matter of neat and simple notation. He did not even employ the artifice of the current metaphor, and yet he did secure the validity of its detail and ornament. “Nominalistic poetry.”

Among the arguments that [Louis] Zukofsky gave [Ezra] Pound for including this translation of René Taupin’s review of André Salmon [in the “Objectivists” Issue of Poetry Magazine, 1931] was the assertion that it would reinforce what he considered to be his own position—nominalism. Although the “Objectivists” were not nominalists in the extreme sense of denying the existence of universals or of believing that all relations of word to thing are arbitrary, they were nominalists in the sense of distrusting vague phrases, general and abstract words, and discursive analyses and commentaries. Like Salmon, they wanted a poetry which presents the thing rather than qualifies or talks about it. Taupin wrote: “The metaphor of Baudelaire, or even the metaphor of Mallarmé, was primarily qualitative; it expressed what consistently poor adjectives could not express.” However, Taupin, on the one hand, felt that metaphor and image were essentially artifice. He asked: “Would the image no longer do?” and answered: “The real would.” He asked: “And language?” and answered: “Not metaphors, but the most immediate projections of the real which does not stop being real, even taking on, under this handling, plastic, decorative and emotive value.” The “Objectivists” believed, on the other hand, in the Emerson-Fenollosa-Pound tradition, that certain metaphors and images were of the essence of the real. At the roots of all language are metaphors which substantiate original perceptions which can be revitalized in poetry as thought, melody, and image. Nevertheless, the metaphor of the “Objectivists” was not the metaphor of Baudelaire and Mallarmé. It was interpretive rather than qualitative. Qualitative metaphor modifies but does not create perception of the fact. It is a subjective comment about a thing, “hallucination,” not perception.

Like Salmon, the “Objectivists” wanted a poetry the validity of which was secured by revelation of the real. Taupin wrote: “Nominalistic poetry is the synthesis of real detail, similar to the art of the primitives; and not of abstract or decomposed detail, like the impressionists.” The difference between real and abstract or decomposed detail, like the difference between objective and subjective Images as Pound defined them  is whether the detail emerges from the mind of the poet like or unlike his original generative experience. Details become abstract or decomposed as their accessibility to experience becomes attenuated by preconceived requirements and subjective distortions and associations.

Taupin argued for “the most direct contact,” approaching the purity of mathematical formula, the expressiveness of “scientific statement,” or newspaper reportage. “The newspaper,” he claimed, “is not so insipid as one might think when the news runs together and bears a definite imprint; it is only when the news inclines to be ‘literary’ that it loses its force of perfect notation. . . . The event therefore should be left to its integrality, to its maximum of the wonderful . . . The fact as it forms, that is not as it is cooked by the imperfect or predatory or sentimental poet.”

Regard for the event was characteristic of both Salmon and the “Objectivist.” Taupin wrote that “epic poetry is neither recitative nor narrative”; it is neither moralistic nor depends “on decorative qualities for its framework.” Epic poetry depends on “the poetic value of the event.” The epic poet does not feel the need for “making his heroes greater than their action.”

But this poetry is based on choice, on the imagination which apparently does not create but discovers, and gives the accomplished fact its maximum of the real: the esthetic of the reporter and the cinematographer—Eisenstein looking for the perfect Russian peasant woman and finding her after examining a thousand imperfect ones.

Salmon, like the “Objectivists,” consciously chose the details that best represent the wholes of which they are parts, the particulars which best evoke the experiences which involve them. The particulars of sincerity, therefore, can not be invented out of nothing. “The image,” Oppen wrote, “is encountered.”

The Nominalist poet allows details, by themselves, without analytic underpinning, to evoke the event. “The composition of the poem,” wrote Taupin, “is neither descriptive nor narrative”; its contents are not classified or schematized. Speaking of Salmon’s Prikaz, in which Salmon discovered “the value of the Russian revolution,” Taupin wrote:

It is obvious that the objects in this poem do not hold together in an association of ideas, but in their proper force of attraction.’ There is an art more than composition—even the composition of the impressionists; there is the attraction of the magnet, and the electric shock, the reality runs into reality by these brusgue transformations of shock: the esthetic of Eisenstein.

If drawing a constellation, a nominalist would present the stars as dots by themselves in their proper arrangement, leaving out the lines we imagine between them and the mythological figures we associate with them, knowing the reader would imagine the lines and figures for himself. This compositional method is the same as Pound’s ideogramic method—the presentation of synecdochic details or examples whose juxtaposition participates in certain lines of force—the magnet’s rose pattern in iron filings. It does not depend on either Symbolist or rationalistic “association of ideas.” If the idea or sentiment is valid, it will appear as a gestalt of the assembled details.

This “restitution” of ideas to an assembly of facts is “the essential distinction of the epic”:

Prikaz is this generation’s unique, intelligent attempt to give to the epic its rightful qualities, to find again the essential distinction of the epic, which is neither love nor hate but the restitution of these sentiments to a chain of facts which exist and the existence of which confers upon them the marvelous (le marveilleux—cf. Chateaubriand, le merveilleux chrétien) indispensable to all poetry.

Zukofsky echoed this concept of epic restitution in his “Program”: an “Objective” is “the direction of historic and contemporary particulars . . . a thing or things as well as an event or chain of events.” Zukofsky also made Taupin’s statement the epigraph to the “epic” section of An “Objectivists” Anthology and claimed in his preface that “poets should ultimately attempt” the epic restitution which Taupin accurately described.

Modigliani, Picasso, and Salmon

André Salmon is the forgotten Cubist writer though he outlived many of his early associates.  He shared quarters in the famous Bateau-Lavoir with Picasso and Max Jacob, and, along with Guillaume Apollinaire, was an early proponent of Cubism.  For more on the fascinating life of this poet, go to 

Prikaz (“decree” in Russian) is Salmon’s unique epic poem from 1919 in sixteen juxtaposed fragments.  Each envisions the Russian Revolution from a specific point of view and without narrative continuity nor the reappearance of characters.

René Taupin was a French translator, critic, and academic who lived most of his life in the United States and is best known for L’influence du symbolisme français sur la poésie américaine (de 1910 à 1920), published in 1929, and for singling out William Carlos Williams, who at the time was receiving very little critical attention, by stating, “Peut-être  William Carlos Williams a-t-il composé la formule de l’art américain.” (Perhaps William Carlos Williams has himself composed the formula for American art.)

The entirety of Tom Sharp’s scholarly appraisal is available at The Objectivists with all the attendant footnotes and proper permissions.

Tom Sharp is the author of numerous books, including Spectacles from Taurean Horn Press, and a member of Seldovia Village Tribe.  He was a student of David Bromige’s at Sonoma State University and studied with Albert Gelpi at Stanford University, where he earned his Ph.D.  He is retired from IBM where he was a writer and programmer, and currently lives in Seattle.

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Years In The Making


When did you start writing Ode To Sunset, A Year In The Life Of An American Genius and what was the inspiration?

Everything probably came together late spring 2008, or thereabouts.  I was putting the final touches to another novel that I’d played with for close to 30 years.  I wasn’t in any particular hurry to get it done, and maybe for that reason it was shaping up quite nicely.  At the same time I was writing a serial novel, some neo-pulp crime fiction, in monthly installments for the entertainment of a few local writers I know. I also had a couple of other pulp fiction projects that were in various stages of development.  So it wasn’t like I was looking for something to do. Yet in the middle of all that, at the end of a very manic day in which a lot of writing got done, I took a break.  I had been thinking about writing this novel, this kind of novel, for quite some time.  It’s the kind of novel a writer would normally be advised against writing.  Mainly because it is borderline narcissistic, like staring at yourself in the mirror, and depending on the light or your mood, you’re either admirable or pathetic. I’d had a germ of an idea at the back of my mind, but at that moment when I was contemplating the work I had just completed or left off, the organizing principle for the novel presented itself.  The beginning and the ending, in effect, occurred to me. 

Why did you write Ode To Sunset?

The motivation was personal, and largely sentimental.  I had the notion, the urge to memorialize friends, poets, who had died.  To accomplish that, without indulging in biography, I had to write about their element, which is poetry.  That which gave them joy and sorrow.  Because that’s what poetry does to poets, it makes them happy and it makes them sad.  In order to convey the joys and sorrows of being a poet, I needed an agent, a guide to the poetry world, a fictional sentience who is not quite Charles Baudelaire and not quite Charles Bukowski, and who goes by the name of Carl Wendt.  And it had to be irreverent, amusing, a satire.  My dear departed friends would expect no less of me.

Who is Carl Wendt suppose to represent?

Carl Wendt isn’t any one person or poet.  He is a kind of literary composite.  He has attributes of Charles Baudelaire in that he is a flaneur or dandy, an old school jazz hipster, and he works the margins of the literary scene as a freelance art and culture critic in a way that Baudelaire did.  Also like Baudelaire, and the modern American poet Charles Bukowski, his poetry offends the delicate sensibilities of the bourgeoisie.  He is an opportunist the way that Henry Miller is in Tropic of Cancer, always on the hustle, just getting by so that he can devote himself to his art. He’s also Bud Powell in Paris, marking time with his petite vin rouge. And I suppose, capitalizing on the Hugh Kenner quote that serves as one of the epigraphs for the novel, he can, at first glance, be seen as a charlatan, a jive ass. In this sense he is Coyote, the fool, the trickster. 

So is he the literary Everyman?

I think Wendt is characterized by his political incorrectness.  He’s white, male, heterosexual, he smokes and he’s a drinker. Most of which is no longer socially acceptable in the gentrified literary world.  He’s a social dinosaur heading for the bone yard of obsolescence.  That he’s a well known poet just complicates his inappropriateness. He is unaffiliated and eccentric, and embodies the antagonism between the sanctioned poets and the proscribed poets.

How closely does Carl Wendt resemble a typical poet? 

While I don’t see any poet as being typical, there are some very smart poets on whom Wendt is modeled and whose perspective and experience in defining the American canon has been overlooked, marginalized, because of the workshop industry. They are for the most part not associated with any institution, and are representative of the independent American poets who continue to be part of an antiestablishment community of innovative artists whose credentials are unimpeachable.  Many are ignored because they don’t fit into the current faddish mindset of the workshop mentality or they are keeping at arm’s length the intrusive desperation of fame and fortune.  Well, fame, mostly, by which I mean celebrity.  Everyone can do with a little fortune. 

Is Ode To Sunset autobiographical?

Heterographical, perhaps, in that it contains elements of biography, autobiography, literary history, aesthetic philosophy, social satire, improvisation, imagination, exaggeration and storytelling.  And it’s also personal in the sense that it is something I know a little about, having worked as a poet for fifty years.  Kind of like a retired cop who writes a crime novel.  And it allows me to talk about poetry, and poets, and find humor in otherwise weighty material. 

Do you think of Ode To Sunset as being representative of literature in the period in which you are writing? 

I would like to think that Ode To Sunset is unrepresentative of the period in which I am writing.  I am either ahead of my time or lagging far behind.  But wherever I am, I find it useful to be out of step in order to gauge my relative position in a world of obsessive scribblers.  As the Flann O’Brien quote that also serves as an epigraph implies, a novel is what the novelist says it is, much as Duchamp indicated that art is what the artist says it is.  This gives art and, by default, literature an incredible amount of freedom.  On the other hand, the playing field has been enlarged and leveled to such an extent that everything appears equal with everything else and this leads ultimately to a loss of perspective.  Not only is everything relative to everything else, but everything is subject to change without notice depending on any particularly focus directed at everything.

How do you reconcile being a poet and a novelist, and does either impact the other?

I always think of writing poetry as a house of cards.  At any point, the poem can be undermined by its own assumptions and come tumbling down.  Writing a novel is more brick and mortar work.  Even the wildest experimental prose is built from the ground up.  Poems, on the other hand, fall from the sky and because they are so ephemeral, they either are or aren’t.  Work in either form doesn’t necessarily influence the other outside of the fact that writing a novel demands so many more words and so, much more time.  A poem will sometimes appear as a piece, fully formed from the brow of the muse.  A novel is subject to revisions and storytelling codes, and follows a blueprint of sorts. Since I write mostly by hand in a notebook, the prose sketches take up a lot of room and energy compared to my poetry jottings.  Also the prose is almost immediately incorporated into the work in progress.  Poems can lie unattended in the notebooks for years. 

What would you say is your writing style?
The style I find myself favoring might be characterized as naked hard boiled pulp.  Not a lot of introspection and inner moaning, letting the events and development speak for themselves.  Wendt has much in common with wise cracking private eyes, and as a poet, he is the ultimate private eye, visionary, a loner, knight in tarnished armor, troubadour in the court of the muse.  If I were to give it the eight second Mamet pitch, I’d say that it is a cross between A Fine Madness and A Confederacy of Dunces with voiceover by George Steiner. 

How many hours do you write a day?

How long I can write depends on how long I can concentrate.  Sketching and plotting I do pretty much on the fly—it is a very spontaneous process and hardly seems to take any time at all.  The real work of arranging all the elements of the novel usually depends on whether or not I can face what I’ve written.  I have very poor work habits.  I do try to spend at least a couple of hours a day on the initial structuring of any prose project. Then when it looks like it’s shaping up to meet my expectations, I can spend the entire day thrashing it out, rereading, editing, rewriting until it reaches a finished state. 

You actually write by hand.  Why?
I do my thinking on paper and act on my thinking at the keyboard.  

At what stage in the writing process do you move from longhand to electronic media?

I normally sketch and take notes on a legal pad, a habit I developed when I first started writing.  At a certain point, later in the day or later in the week, I’ll review what I’ve written and take the time to transcribe it into the appropriate word file.  At this point the more objective writer, the word mechanic, takes over.  Writing by hand allows me the freedom of not filtering the language, not judging whether it is proper or grammatical, simply allowing the words to flow unconstrained and find their own level.  Once the handwritten text is transcribed I can look for the little surprises as well as the duds which I then use to my advantage, or not. 

Do you have any form of ritual preparation before writing?

I have a gamut of avoidance behaviors that I generally run through. 

Such as?

Oh, compulsive checking of email, surfing news feeds, doing just about anything that is not related to the job ahead.  Drinking more coffee.  Staring out the window.  Counting paper clips.  Rechecking email. That kind of thing. 

Do you revise?

Not in the sense that I have a preconceived idea of what I’m going to write and have to strictly abide by it.  What I end up writing either works or it doesn’t.  I never go into it thinking I’m going to write such and such, actually have a definition of such and such, but merely knowing I’m going to write at my whimsy and from that vectors and directions will follow.  Forward progress is determined by the obstacles encountered, the hurdles I’ve placed there, consciously or unconsciously, to challenge narrative complacency.  I have language somewhat imperfectly, a mixture of bad habit, laziness, inelegance, and bilingual confusion.  What you see is what you get, a shabby mix of savoir faire and nonchalance.  

Has writing this novel offered you any insights into the writing of a novel?  Anything that you didn’t know before you started?

I kind of knew this before, perhaps in theory, but it was proven to me in the actualization of this work of fiction.  We tend to think of the novel as a closed system with a beginning, middle, and an end.  In actuality there is time before the novel begins because the beginning is merely a point in history. There are also multitudes of middles, and time continues as history even after the narrative has concluded. The reality of the novel is never complete, as Joyce has taught us, and is always in the state of being, powered by ambiguity and tangent possibility. To insist on finality is merely a death wish.  It’s an example of narrative fallacy.  Narrative fallacy arises from attempts to make sense of the world.  Novelists employ narrative fallacy all the time. The world makes sense because of our unlimited ability to ignore our ignorance. 

Looking back on what you’ve brought forward as a fiction to its completion as a narrative, has it taken on a gravity greater than the sum of its parts?

Ode To Sunset works as an accrual of subject matter and its placement in layers rather than as a linear flight of fancy.  There is a narrative but it is directed by random twists and tilts outside and beyond causal progression.  The novel then becomes a simulacrum of the chaos of everyday life artificially constructed from language, sometimes as sleek streamlined prose and other times as stream of consciousness Rube Goldberg contraptions. It is chaos in search of equilibrium.  It is also childishly self-indulgent and self-centered, replete with petty hopes and fears, an all too human oscillation. There are eddies of confusion and breathtaking rapids as the accumulation of matter, physical and metaphysical, flows in its own serendipitous course. Prose requires absolutes, or the appearance of absolutes. Poetry can survive on ambiguities. 

How objectively can you view Ode To Sunset?

To begin with, it is nearly impossible to view with any consistent objectivity something that I worked on for over ten years. It is truly a love hate relationship. On the one hand, I see it as inane in the same way that Seinfeld and Friends were inane.  Ode To Sunset is similar in its apotropaic absurdity. And I either feel ok with that, the silliness, or I contrive somehow, either through rationalization or editing, to rectify it.  Poets are constantly on the verge of becoming anachronisms.  They barely made it into the 20th century.  How are they going to make it into the 21st century?  Ode To Sunset poses the question, “Are you sure you want to be a poet?”

Pat Nolan is the author of over a dozen poetry books, most recently So Much, Selected Poems Volume II, Notebook Keyboard (1990-2010) from Nualláin House, Publishers (2019).  He has also published two genre novels, a western and crime fiction, as well as the online serial fiction, Ode To Sunset, A Year In The Life of American Genius, available for perusal at  This interview with the author is condensed from a longer two part interview first published on the Ode To Sunset site.

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This Is How Legends Begin

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved, and, next to nature, Art;
I warm’d both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
—Walter Savage Landor

Recollections, appreciations, musings, poems, photos, art gallery, and video celebrating the life of Keith Kumasen Abbott, 1944-2019, by Lani Abbott, Persephone Abbott, George Mattingly, Gloria Frym, Maureen Owen, Pat Nolan, Jerry Reddan, Brit Pyland, David Schnieder, Günter Ohnemus, Eugene Zander, Janine Ibbotson, Meredith Shedd-Driskel, and Clark Coolidge (via Steve Dickison).

To begin Pat Nolan reached back into his memory to try to pin down the year he first met Keith Abbott:
Sometime in ’65, maybe ’66, I think.  I was pouring beer and wine and making sandwiches at the Palace Bar & Grill on Cannery Row in Monterey, California.  It was one of those authentic bohemian hangouts with wire spool tables and mismatched chairs.  A jukebox featured forty-fives by Dave Brubeck or Miles and some of those new folksingers like Dylan and Baez.  It wasn’t exactly a tourist spot.  An occasional sightseer would wander in and then wander out.  It had the atmosphere of a waterfront dive thanks to the blatant drunkenness of many of its denizens.  I’d made the acquaintance of one of the patrons, a young woman by the name of Lani Hansen.  The first thing I noticed about Lani, in addition to her Norwegian comeliness, was how smart she was.  That made her dazzlingly attractive.  And I learned she was from the Seattle area.  As it turns out Lani and I also lived in the same rooming house located above the old Wing Chong Grocery Store then Antique Emporium on Cannery Row known as Good Old Roy’s (that’s another very long story) although I didn’t know that when I first met her.  Somehow the subject of my being a poet came up.  It usually does, even if I have to be the one to mention it.  Lani told me her boyfriend and high school sweetheart wrote poetry as well.  He was attending the University of Washington but would soon be coming to visit her.  Not long after that conversation I ran into Lani again and she introduced me to her boyfriend, Keith Abbott.

Keith’s passing in the early morning of Monday, August 26th, 2019 brackets my almost fifty-five year friendship with him and, of course, Lani.  That relationship was held together by a steady stream of correspondence for most of those five decades, often numbering two or three letters a month, long letters, half a dozen typed pages in fact were the rule rather than the exception, until predictably email rendered most communication  a memorandum. The letters were an ongoing record of our daily doings, what we were reading, what we were writing, the de rigueur literary gossip, our ever evolving aesthetic, hopes and dreams (as only authors can have), and, above all, our unfaltering dedication to our art.  Ours was a long distance friendship interspersed with visits whenever we had business that brought us in proximity to each other, the pleasure part of “business and pleasure.”  The last time we lived in the same neighborhood and socialized regularly was at the beginning of our friendship, in 1967, the year that both Keith’s daughter, Persephone, and my son, Bryan, were born.

Lani Abbott provides this time line for those early days:
1965.  Keith and Lani begin partnership and meet [Pat Nolan] while living on Cannery Row at Carney Good ol’ Roy’s with lots of local color, and find the groove that supports the next 50 years of life, love and work.
1965-66. Migration begins: Living in San Francisco Haight/Fillmore apartment across the street from Family Dog commune, riots, martial law, Kenneth Rexroth, and let’s have a baby.
1967. Baby daughter Persephone born in Monterey/Pacific Grove paradise.

Persephone Abbott now lives in the Netherlands where she teaches voice, sings opera, and writes.  She contributed this poem in her father’s memory.

Recollections from his Daughter

I am unable to remember when I met my father.
He told me he recalled the moment even though
The nurse thrust a substance upon his person
To keep him (well mustached at 23 years of age) from fainting
And falling on the hospital floor in a heap.
He admitted he liked both:
The baby and the intervention.
It was a good day.

I remember my father busy in the mornings writing something important.
Then he’d come out of his lair for coffee.
He was adored and admired for his charm and wit but he also drank coffee.
He ground the beans first.
It’s not a secret to making good coffee.

When I was a young girl, my father sometimes invited me
To go with him to the municipal dump.
I thought it was very exciting and I always said yes.
I also hung around him and his buddy Richard, who bought me
Steamed clams in Chinatown, but only occasionally so I
Didn’t miss too much school. But I
Tended not to go to school before lunchtime anyway.

My father and I enjoyed Amtrak together.
Multiple times.

My father taught me the best way to collect money at a golf club.
He’d never taken a short iron rod in a brown paper bag to a golf course,
But he thought I should know about golfers’ kneecaps
As part of my education.

When I was fourteen my father bought me a piano,
And, circumventing the school system, he found me private
French lessons. Following up on these two notions later:
I moved to Paris and studied music. Simple as that.

I once asked him what he thought about reincarnation.
He stared at me and did not utter a single word.
I believe he had a point.

The last thing he wrote me was a postcard of a stone frog. It said:
“Persephone I’ve got a place in the CHOIR!”
“I can’t wait!!” he added along with a large splat of ink at the end.
Then he croaked.

Tears ran into my coffee
Feeling salty, I took the dog to the park.
She likes the park and I do too.
She’s slow, selective of hearing, bow legged,
Benefits from poor eyesight and just like my premonition
I watched her slide from behind a favored tree down the slope
Enacting the part of a slow motion replay
Plonk into the canal, panic registering in her cloudy eyes.
It figures, I thought, that I end up jumping into an Amsterdam canal
The day my father is cremated,
Separate elements, each of us chasing a dog.

Pat Nolan again:Keith was responsible for my initiation into the world of underground avant-garde poetry.  Whalen, Snyder, O’Hara, Spicer were our buzz words and passwords.  At first I think ours was a kind of lopsided reciprocity.  I obviously got much more out of the friendship than perhaps he did.  He introduced me to his friends who were also writers.  At that time I had met very few writers who were of my generation or radical inclination.  Clifford Burke, Bill Bathurst, Steve Carey, and Richard Brautigan were all writers I met through my acquaintance with Keith.  Through him and Lani I also got to know, and claim as a dear friend, Michael Sowl, a Duluth transplant, graduate of the Defense Language Institute, and the model for Magic Eddy in Keith’s novel Gush, and Mordecai in Mordecai of Monterey.  I was also introduced to the Dunn Brothers, a couple of hillbilly conmen who populated his novel Gush as well as one of them being the model for Lee Melon in Brautigan’s A Confederate General In Big Sur.  I published Keith’s first book of poems, Dump Truck, and a few years later he returned the favor and published my first book of poems, Rock Me Roll Me Vast Fatality.

In the mid-sixties you could put everything I knew about poetry in a nutshell and still have ample room for the nut and a family of four.  Most of what I read back then was an odd assortment of academy sanctioned poetry, those long dead poets garnered from my insatiable reading, Rimbaud and Baudelaire in particular, and a chance discovery of Donald Allen’s The New American Poetry.  But then, fresh from my discharge out of the military, I had yet to enroll in any college literature courses.  My friendship with Keith was also an apprenticeship in the day to day reality of being a poet—off the page, so to speak.  Keith had a clear vision of what it took to be a poet in the latter half of the 20th century.  He knew who to read and what to read.  Some of it was from an underground poetry world I didn’t even know existed.  With Keith as my virtual Virgil, I stepped into an undercurrent of intellectual ferment and passionately innovative literature.  Every little side stapled mimeographed one shot poetry magazine was read as if it contained the most urgent news. 

Lani’s time line continues with more adventures of the Abbott family:
1968-69.  Parenthood  in world of American trouble after moving back to San Francisco so Keith could finish his undergraduate degree at  SF State University,  riots,  violence outside Panhandle apartment relieved by small inheritance received by Lani who decides a change of nation is in order.
1969. Keith, an Irishman, finds himself in England, schedules a nervous breakdown and figures learning to write long fiction is the remedy.  The result is a novel called Dead Hippo, for which publishing prospects are captured in the title.  Keith’s wonderful mother, Gert, visits and tries to persuade Keith (and Lani) they need a career direction.  K & L are living in idyllic village and fail to comprehend a better direction then the footpath to the pub.  Gert offers to pay for graduate school so Keith can teach future layabouts in America. Keith accepts.
1969-71.  Keith completes MA at Western Washington State College in Bellingham with impromptu thesis on William Carlos Williams’ Paterson, and the family escapes back to Monterey, where Keith finds a job as chair of the English Department at a high school in Salinas.  When he asks why the faculty are wearing dresses, he learns it is run by Dominican brothers.  He lasts a year.

Pat Nolan: I also benefited from Keith’s reading regimen.  Kenneth Rexroth, for his essays and translations of Reverdy as well as the Chinese and Japanese poets, Philip Whalen, for a Pacific Rim sensibility, ditto Gary Snyder, Williams of course, and O’Hara, for those wild mood swings customary to the process of creativity.   The foundational readings of my poetry autodidacticism were recommendations by Keith.  Some of the most significant books in my poetry reading experience were gifted to me by Keith: On Bear’s Head, One Hundred Poems from the Chinese, and Second Avenue.

And it was Keith who tipped me to the networking potential of mimeo magazines. His Blue Suede Shoes was a vortex of New York poets on the West Coast.  It was enough to make James Schuyler sit up and take notice, as he remarks in his March 1971 letter to Trevor Winkfield: Have you ever exchanged magazines with Keith Abbott? He is, or was, Blue Suede Shoes. I like a lot of his poems—sort of West Coast Padgett, with a lot of the dilution that might imply—also someone he’s published named Pat Nolan, who’s a little closer to being a West Coast Larry Fagin; or perhaps is to Abbott what Fagin is to Padgett? Only different. . . .” (Just The Things, Selected Letters of James Schuyler Turtle Point Press, 2004).  Following Keith’s example, I started my own mimeo poetry mag, The End (& Variations Thereof).  In 1973, Keith Abbott and I were the only two California poets to receive a grant from the New York-based Poets Foundation.

Lani again: 1972-73. Keith supports Lani’s hilarious idea of finishing her undergraduate degree and even more hilarious idea of going to graduate school.  She completes the former at UC Davis, where Keith spends the year drinking sherry in the pool.  To give him something to do, Lani persuades him to write some terrible poems which she submits for a statewide poetry contest.  Lani wins and becomes California’s student Poet Laureate for the year.  To Keith’s relief, she turns down a Regent’s Fellowship to stay in Davis.  The family moves to Berkeley where they move into a shared house with old friend Darla Hilliard, who is soon to go to Nepal to be the first to radio collar snow leopards. Lani just thumps along in grad school until she figures out life is much more rewarding in theater where she works for the next decade.  Keith recognizes the Bay Area as his natural territory and sets about matching his living environment to his imagination. 

George and Lucy Mattingly were the first to publish Keith’s novels, Gush (1975) and Rhino Ritz (1979), from their Blue Wind Press.  They also published a selection of Keith’s poems, Erase Words (1977).  Keith, Lani. Persephone, George and Lucy were neighbors for much of the Abbott family’s time in that nebulous East Bay region known as the Berkeley-Albany-Solano triangle.

I met Keith Abbott in spring 1974 at a poetry reading by Stephen Rodefer at San Francisco State University. The poetry scene then was hot. Even the unknowns could draw audiences of dozens, and name poets, hundreds — Ginsberg and Snyder, thousands. There were hundreds in this audience: a full auditorium.  I was sitting near the back (in case escape became necessary). Rodefer’s poems were full of obscure jokes, puns, and outrageous eroticism, so I couldn’t resist laughing, encouraging, and commenting.  At some point I noticed there were a couple of serious-looking gatekeeper types glaring at me. One of them wagged a finger, and then put it in front of his lips. Shut up, in other words, this is Serious Stuff. “But it’s too—” I started to say, when a large hand patted me on the shoulder & the guy attached to it said “—too goddamned funny!” The gatekeeper’s face twisted like paper crumpling. I turned around and saw Keith Abbott behind me, smiling his big Buddha smile — and chortling. He finished my sentences, my jokes, even my laughter — and my drinks sometimes if I wandered too far.

The first Saturday morning after Lucy and I started renting the front bedroom in Lani and Keith’s faded pink stucco house at 1146 Sutter Street in Berkeley, we were awakened by loud banging. Pulling on my jeans, I walked down the hall and saw Keith, in his cool weather gardening clothes holding a 55-gallon metal garbage can with one hand & banging on it with a heavy-gauge steel garden rake. Whack. Whack. Bang. Bang.  From their 8-year-old daughter Persephone’s room came a blood-curdling wail. “No! No! You can’t!” And Keith barking back, “Yes! Yes! I can! Everything off the floor in 5 minutes or—” — he pointed a work glove at the garbage can. I peeked into Persephone’s room: clothes, books, toys, bedding, her whole life in a layer half a foot deep.

“Saturday morning on Sutter Street,” said Keith, “hope you and Lucy slept well!”

Later, after the wailing and banging stopped, I saw Keith on the couch, mustache beaded with hot black Berkeley coffee. Looking up from a film star biography he was reading, he said “Amazing how the author thinks we’re going to believe that all these things actually happened during his one life.”

In August 1974, Lani Abbott was readying for a solo trip to the UK. Lucy was about to move to London for an Antioch College semester abroad. I had just gotten a check from H.U.D. for vacating my $60-a-month apartment in Iowa City, Iowa (in a block slated for “urban renewal” a.k.a. bulldozing). And a check from a writers’ aid foundation — to speed my recovery from the breakup with the last of my Scorpio ice maiden girlfriends (aid I no longer needed but was happy to get).

“Time for a PARTY!” Keith announced. Pulling out his calligraphy pen, he created an announcement postcard for


He invited fifty or sixty friends, and passed the hat for cheap wine and snacks.

The day of the party, Lani and Keith’s daughter Persephone went to a friend’s house for a sleepover. Keith and I took the pickup downtown to buy a new stereo — the one material possession (besides pot and cheap wine) essential to every hippie household at the time.  Then off through the tunnel to Joseph’s Liquors on Solano Avenue to buy 6 gallons of Grower’s red wine. At $3.79 a gallon, this particular wine “had never seen a grape” according to Keith’s friend in the wine business, Peter Brehm.  Lani (easily the best home cook I have ever known) made a bean dip and an aïoli to go with a beautiful spread of fresh vegetables and breads — the polar opposite of the low-rent beverages on the card table.

Al Green, Weather Report, The Rolling Stones, Smokey Robinson, and Aretha Franklin on the brand-new tune box & we were ready to party — all afternoon, into the evening, and most of the night.  As people began to trickle in, I saw Lani and housemate Darla Hilliard gazing at a print on the wall near the kitchen: a male model cropped from lower back to upper thigh, wearing skin-tight neon-striped underwear. “You’ll see a lot of that in London,” said Darla. “Umm…yes,” said Lani, stirring her glass of white vermouth on the rocks. Darla’s tall boyfriend Victor came in, holding a greasy piece of Honda innards from the engine rebuilding project that had blocked the garage for months.  Darrell Gray lurched by with a tumbler of brandy. “Have you seen Patty? Can’t find Patty (his girlfriend Pat O’Donnell). He left, opening closet doors, looking out every window, looking for Patty. (A couple hours later I had to rescue Darrell, who had wandered face first into the hedge and was too drunk to extricate himself.) By 3 a.m. most of the guests were passed out on the floor. Darrell was explaining Schopenhauer to the cat, which was cowering under the card table. “Almost time to send my veins out for dry-cleaning,” said Keith, pulling on his mustache. He smiled and shuffled off to bed.

In January 1975, I was trying to organize poems I had written since 1969 (which were eventually published as Breathing Space). I had no clue which to include or how to order them. Keith came by one afternoon with a 6-pack of Liberty Ale, opened a couple and offered to look at the manuscript. A few days later he brought back the typescript — re-ordered and with notes pencilled on every page. He had categorized each poem as Big Talk, Reality George,* You’re Kidding, or Beauty Secrets.  “Don’t give the audience a chance to get bored and give up on you — which they might if you put too many similar-sounding poems in a row. Mix up the categories. And start with a work that teases the reader about where the trip is going to go.” Everything he did made perfect sense. He told me he found it much easier to edit or arrange someone else’s writing.

(*Reality George: the nickname given to me by Allan Kornblum in 1970.)

Bang bang bang bang on the door of the half bedroom Karl Kardel charmer Lucy and I lived in that spring of 1975. Rubbing my eyes sitting up naked in the mattress on the floor of the carpeted loft. Bang bang bang bang. “Up and at ’em, George!” For a guy whose writing and illustrations could be so subtle and quiet, Keith could be really loud, really big, a huge presence. He let himself in and scanned our LP collection and grocery list while I pulled on jeans, boots and long-sleeved flannel shirt. Stamping impatiently. “Time to get the money!”

That day was one of many when I did trash hauling, moving, and yard work with Keith. The splintery sideboards on his old pickup were spray-painted with the words “GTM.” Customers were told this stood for “Good Times Movers,” but the acronym actually stood for “Get The Money.” I was one of many friends who worked with Keith when funds were low — and in mid ’70s they were often really really low.

Those were the days Gloria Frym remembers:
Keith Abbott was a dear pal. We met in the late 1970s. When he and Lani moved away from, as he would say, “the old country” to teach at Naropa, he wrote and called every couple of months, assiduously keeping up our friendship even when he was in the early throes of his illness.  Lani and he always invited me and other summer writing faculty over for lunch or dinner, when we managed to squeeze in the latest lit gossip despite our increasingly heavy schedule.  Boulder lost three pieces of my heart when Lucia wasn’t there anymore, then Bobbie Louise, now Keith.  Life has grown a lot less interesting and certainly less charming without that triumvirate. Here, anthologized by Andrei Codrescu in Up Late: American Poetry Since 1970 is one of my favorite Keith Abbott poems:

Good News Bad News
                           after Apollinaire
in memory of Ted Berrigan

An old-fashioned sketchbook
With plenty of young women
Old wine the refined taste
Turns to restoring youth

Here the joy also heard
In the soft early songs
And this charm still enough
To save the new for an aged brain

To have old books past friends
Enjoy the ripe days Autumn
Here all the pleasures except
The one which always astonishes us

The one we call love
For this alone the world breathes
By this everyone knows the way out
The way in night & day

To live and die
Good news bad news

Pat Nolan: Keith and I traveled to New York City to read at the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s in the fall of 1978 and met some of the poets we had been publishing in our respective magazines, both which were no longer active by then.  We spent quality time with Ted Berrigan and Alice Notley, and family, and had a jolly reunion with our old West Coast pal, Steve Carey.  We also met Ron Padgett and Maureen Owen who were at the helm of the Poetry Project in those days.

As Maureen recalls:Back so many years ago I can’t recall exactly, Pat Nolan invited me to join himself, Keith Abbott, and Michael Sowl in the writing of a Renga, a linked poetry.  I loved the idea of collaborating and was an ardent fan of Japanese poetry and so joined in. I knew Keith’s work and had met him at the St. Mark’s Poetry Project (now The Poetry Project) where he was giving a reading.  Those were the days before email and we sent our lines to each other by regular post.  And so of course our lines had to be accompanied by a long letter or a long letter with our lines embedded.  Vast expanses of time passed as we received the next lines and letters from one another.  Often hand written, sometimes typed, our letters languidly trotted the oncoming link to our eager mailboxes.  Keith’s letters were always a delight and full of literary news, family news, news of his latest writing, and sometimes a dynamic swoop of calligraphy.  We wrote our Rengas over many years and many letters.  From Michael in Minnesota, Pat in California, Keith in Colorado, and me on the east coast, our linked verse trekked and crackled.

Later I had the pleasure of living near Keith in Colorado and seeing him often on the Naropa campus where we were both teaching.  I remember delicious and fun lunches at Lani and his home during the Summer Writing Program at Naropa.  Their hospitality and lovely gardens, a living Zen.  Keith was always bigger than life, brash in an open and lighthearted, bighearted manner; always welcoming and generous in his life and in his art.  Besides teaching writing at Naropa, he taught a fabulous course in Calligraphy.  A gorgeous piece he created for me hangs over my desk right now.  Mu, Void, in blackest ink forever liquid, it is moving perfection created by the brush of a master.  A huge presence, now forever missed, but never missing.

Günter Ohnemus, Keith’s German translator, provides this account at their friendship and how they met.
In the old days—1982 or 1983—when the world around me was full of love and laughter and a future other people could only dream of, my wife and I met George and Lucy Mattingly at the Frankfurt Book Fair.  We went to dinner together and we laughed all night . . .well, not all night, because they stayed at a hotel in Aschaffenburg and had to catch a late train that took them there. But the echo of this night and this laughter is still with me. In these years laughter was so much around that sometimes we woke up laughing.

In 1984 (which was the next year or the year after the next year) we visited them in Berkeley, and one night they introduced us to Keith (“Ursus Abbotticus,“ as George called him. “He’s as strong as a bear.”).  In the sushi restaurant, where we had dinner, Keith mentioned  a manuscript that he held back because he wanted to sell it to the movies.  I asked him if I could see it, and a couple of weeks later I took it back with me to Germany.  The title was Racer.  A story about an unruly boy.

I was ravished when I read the book, Keith and I agreed that a German version of the book would not diminish its Hollywood prospects. I sent the manuscript to my publisher, Benno Käsmayr of Maro’s, and the book was published in October 1987.  So there was an American book in German that never existed in English as a book.  It stayed in print for two decades. As far as I know it was never published in English.

I translated four of his books, and for a long while Keith and I were pretty close, we went on a reading tour with one of his publishers, his books were highly praised in Germany (though never a financial success), and translating them was a great joy for me. It didn’t feel like work.  It felt like living, it was life.

We had a falling-out some years ago, hadn’t had contact over all these years, which is a pity, but that’s how things go sometimes. Talk about financial success – I remember what Keith once said on one of our walks in Munich: “If I can be for just one person what Ray Charles was to me, then spending my life as a writer wasn’t in vain.”

We hadn’t had contact, I said. But we had some sort of contact through his daughter Persephone.  Last year I translated her first novel, A Closely Knit Web, from the manuscript.  So far there is no English edition.  Like Racer it was published by Maro. Last year, 2018: Ein rasch gesponnenes Netz.  So, like her father before her . . . Ah, well, I seem to run in the family.

Lani recalls the years from 1973-1994:  Keith finally lands a long tenure in the Bay Area literary scene.  He publishes a succession of poetry, novels, and short fiction with small press publishing including Clifford Burke’s Cranium Press and George Mattingly’s Blue Wind Press.  He cultivates what he considers a well rounded working writer’s profile: working widely in poetics, including classic forms, prose and sound poetry, and the collaborative Japanese form, Renku, with fellow poets Pat Nolan, Maureen Owen and Michael Sowl. Inspired by Phillip Whalen, he trains in western and Asian calligraphy to create visual poetry.  He writes long and short fiction, works in journalism both as feature writer and editor.  While serving as fiction editor for The Berkeley Monthly, he champions and befriends the writer Lucia Berlin.  He explores dramatic writing, collaborating with actors and directors at the Berkeley location of the Drama School London and the Bay Area Playwrights Festival and he workshops a one act play at the Magic Theatre.  His audience expands internationally and his work is published in Germany, France and the U.K.  He learns to enjoy public performance of his work.

Brit Pyland remembers first meeting Keith:
I was introduced to Keith by our mutual friend John Veglia. John and I brought a bottle of Cabernet to Keith’s home in Albany, CA for a fun afternoon. We found many areas of keen mutual interest, including poetry and Zen. Keith’s Zen and calligraphy teacher Kobun Chino roshi had been one of my first teachers when I was just starting Zen practice and study at Tassajara Zen Mountain Center. Kobun was very kind, patient, and friendly. He was generous with his time and helped me with sitting posture. We took a long hike above Tassajara and downstream. On the way back he paused below the tall Sycamore in wonderful dappled light and shot an imaginary arrow at a high bird. His big smile indicated that he had hit his mark.

Another time when leading a demonstration of Zen archery on a high bluff at Esalen retreat center, he shot an arrow way out into the Pacific and with a big grin turned and remarked “Bullseye!”

Keith was Kobun’s assistant in calligraphy classes at Naropa Institute. Keith refined his calligraphy and brush art under Kobun’s guidance and became a fine artist.

Our friendship grew and was nourished by close mutual friends, including Zenshin Philip Whalen, Denis Kelly, and George and Lucy Mattingly. Philip and I shared a flat in Noe Valley in S.F. and hosted a small informal sitting group with tea or breakfast after zazen on Friday mornings—just a few people, including  a few of Phil’s writer friends. I later became Philip’s assistant when he became abbot at Hartford Street Zen Center and Maitri Hospice, doing mainly administrative work.

I took Keith and Lani to visit Philip when his health was failing and was living at SF Zen Center’s Hospice on Page Street, very upbeat farewell.

Keith and I shared writing and art over the years, sometimes exchanging correspondence of assumed comic personae. We also confided aspects of our Zen practice to encourage one another.

I am very grateful that we were able to speak on the phone on number of lucky occasions when he was not suffering from aphasia and was very clearheaded and in good spirits before he passed.

Keith is very much alive in my memories.

Brit also provided this account of Keith’s ordination in his own words:

At age 69 I decided it was time to know what the Japanese characters said on the rakusu I have been wearing since 2002 and so I commissioned Kaz Tanahashi to translate my teacher Kobun Chino’s Japanese on the rakusu silk backing.  Know that a kashaya is the Buddha body, Buddha mind. It is called a robe of emancipation, a field of benefaction. It is called a robe of patience, a robe beyond form. It is called a robe of compassion, a robe of the Tathagata, a robe of unsurpassable, complete enlightenment.

June 12th, 2002, Auspicious day of Ordination
Houn Kobun
For Lay-person Mugaku Jikido
to maintain this

(The passage is from Dogen, p. 146, Treasury of the True Dharma Eye) translated by Kaz Tanahashi.

Note: Mugaku Jikido was my formal Buddhist name.  Before my ordination Kobun translated this for me as: “No knowledge / preconceptions on the clear / straight path.”  He died after this event, on July 26, 2002.

The history of my rakusu goes like this. This formal name resulted some months earlier from what happened at the end of the incredibly intense dokusan that confirmed my ordination. Once my ordination and its details were arranged, I wanted to commission Kobun to brush a calligraphic version of a phrase, Mugaku No Koto that I had found in D.T. Suzuki. In that context this phrase was the highest praise for a Zen calligraphy: “A thing / matter / event of no learning.” i.e. the brushwork showed no preconceptions whatsoever: it just was what it was.  But because the intensity of Kobun’s dokusan exhausted me I could not remember the last two words No Koto.  So I only said “Mugaku” and that there were two more words.  Kobun dismissed my distress with a wave of his hand and said, “And that [mugaku] will be your first Buddhist name!”  He also added that now he had the burden of thinking up the rest of my Buddhist name before my ordination; I only had to sew a rakusu.  Such was his humor.

During my ordination in June 2002 Kobun announced my “Mugaku Jikido” title for the assembled monks and friends. But, he immediately followed that with: “But we will not call him by that name!  His name will be Kumasen (i.e. Bear Sage).”  When we co-taught the contemplative brush class together at Naropa Kobun had noticed that my habitual actions displayed some of that nature. On December 27, 2013 after learning what the rakusu said, I decided to research jikido and found this:

In Zen Buddhism, it is the job of the jikidō (直堂?) to run the zendo according to the rules prescribed by the teacher, and maintain the zendo’s schedule. The jikido makes a commitment to run every regularly scheduled sitting and each monthly sesshin. In Sōtō the jikido is the one person, other than the Teacher, who faces outward in the zendo instead of facing the wall. This is because the jikido’s practice cannot be simply private or inward, but must always face outward, aware and responsive to what’s going on in the zendo. The jikido’s job is not just to facilitate the functioning of the zendo, the jikido embodies and exemplifies practice as functioning. And that is the functioning of no-self – of the forgotten self – that responds to each thing in turn, performs each function in turn without a thought of right or wrong or how am I doing or how do I look doing it.

So for me to be a “Mugaku Jikido” means that among other duties I am the caretaker of the no-self zendo, basically running what I call Mu Shin Zendo routines: Nothing Doing Doing Nothing  (my translation into American English of Mu Shin).   I believe that I had been maintaining those duties for Kobun during our two contemplative brush workshops, and since 2002 in my daily life.

Janine Ibbotson studied brush with Keith.  Here is her appreciation on her website:

Jerry Reddan, master printer and publisher at Tangram Press, recalls meeting Keith in a short note addressed to Pat Nolan:
I’m pretty sure I met Keith at Serendipity [Books] in the late 70’s.  As Tangram was getting started in ’87 I’m sure Keith was seeing some of my projects.  It was not until ’87 that I printed Skin And Bone followed by broadsides over the years.  As I recall it was Keith who provided you with my address, so it’s all his fault, what a pleasure.  When he and Lani moved to Longmont all correspondence was delivered via USPS, often very funny.  On occasion when he was in the Bay Area researching Whalen, Kerouac material in The Bancroft [Library] he would stay with us for a few days.  There was lots of fun conversations about his teaching students more interested in the movie version than the book itself. Always in good humor even with his mobility problems.  We’ll miss him.

Lani’s time line concludes: 1994-2013: In 1994 he accepts a faculty position at Naropa University in Boulder Colorado, transferring his writing energy to the next generation through his students.

In the early 90’s Keith made a few exploratory trips to Colorado before moving the family to Longmont.  In Denver he stayed with the artist Ivan Suvanjieff, the model for Chili Palmer in Elmore Leonard’s Get Shorty, and editor of the literary magazine The New Censorship, in Ivan’s art loft in the pre-gentrified Wyandot Corridor.  Eugene Zandler, also a resident of the loft remembers Keith this way:
One of my first memories of Keith is the evening that I awoke from my usual swoon to find thick gray smoke coming under the door of my rooms, which was close to the kitchen, for any readers who are unfamiliar with the premises of The Lodo Art and Boxing Team.

I entered the twilight kitchen to find the apparent source of the smoke to be heavy skillets on the gas range top. No one was there; whatever substance was being smelted had also been removed.  I returned to my digs, probably after ascertaining that the north stairway was useable in case of necessity. Alchemical transmutation being such an uncertain process.

Keith had concluded that the perfect temperature for scorching pasta was well above the smoking point of the best cooking oils.  Say 500 F.  He was not yet a resident in the LAABT to the best of my memory.

I did later speak with him briefly numerous times.  He made jokes; one often felt that some cataclysm or great awakening was at hand.  Some force, following him about, waiting for him to prybar open some awareness into the ordinary understanding. I cannot though remember any specific words he said.

Later [Ivan] gave me a copy of one of his comic novels. Unique and unforgettable scenes in that.   Where was/is Hollywood?   Some hapless bad guy unwittingly submerged in semi-poisonous smelt (while romantically engaged, I think) and then the whole exterior wall of the bungalow bedroom tactically dropped like a toilet seat, ker-bang,  the better for retribution and photography.  And this scene in what is now the heart of Silicon Valley, before the ascension of those unworthies. A pig rooting away under a carpet. Etc. His writing was bitingly direct; the man himself behind an impenetrable caul.

I intended to catch his act as a Professor at Naropa, but never got around to that.   I suspected some paradox, some revelation.  I hope he had success and peace.  These are mostly, of course, not anecdotes. Keith was very funny, in a dangerous sort of way, but the details slip away.

Meredith Shedd-Driskel, an old friend of Keith and Lani’s from the early 70’s and Lani’s grad school days in Berkeley provided these pictures from a visit to Longmont in 2005.

Keith with his namesake, baby Keith Mattingly, and holding his own baby picture

George Mattingly:
Keith and I were best friends for many years, and only gradually lost that closeness when he and his wife Lani moved from the Berkeley area to Longmont, Colorado, so that he could take a job as professor in the Writing Department at Naropa University in Boulder.

The day I met him was one of the best days of my life.  The day they moved was one of the saddest days of my life.

I hate talking on the phone, but Keith loved talking on the phone, and we talked often in the decades after they moved to Colorado. In the beginning, Keith finished my sentences. In the end, I finished his.

Pat Nolan: Keith was born on February 2, 1944, Groundhog Day.  Groundhogs are also sometimes referred to as “little bears” thus the importance of the name Kobun gave him, Bear Sage. That date is also James Joyce’s birthday which Keith was never shy in pointing out.  I was born September 3, 1943, approximately six month before Keith which for me had some odd mystical significance.  Although we often joked that we were the poetry twins and there was no telling us apart (on the page), we were actually quite different in personality, for certain, and in our ideas on how best to represent the world, our world, through poetry.  Yet in our love of literature, in particular the art of poetry, we were joined at the hip, informed by the dialogue we shared for nearly fifty five years.

I admired Keith’s poetry immensely—it was a showcase for his intelligence.  Keith’s instincts about the art of writing were always very sophisticated and informed.  His perception and comprehension had an unerring depth that revealed an understanding of the basics, the root of what was necessary to continue in our craft and sullen art while maintaining our authenticity.  Authenticity is the key word here.  It is a quality we valued in the poets we both admired and one to which we aspired in our own work.  I can honestly say that my education and development as a poet owes an enormous debt to Keith Kumasen Abbott. He was my oldest friend and I was his oldest student.

Steve Dickison shared this video clip of Clark Coolidge reading one of Keith’s poems

David Schnieder, another Buddhist friend and the author of the Philip Whalen biography, Crowded By Beauty, remembers Keith this way:
Keith stole the show at the event where I first saw him. It was not an easy show to steal, being the large, formal, memorial reading in San Francisco for a recently-dead Ted Berrigan. Keith read a story, one with several protagonists and a few interweaving plots, most involving serious consumption of alcohol and other intoxicants, and the resulting misadventures. Gentle, self-deprecating, hilarious, the tale provided much-needed humor—relief for a crowd uniformly upset by Berrigan’s sudden death.

As Keith and I got to know one another, it became clear that we shared many interests, a wide, motley spectrum of them, stretching from poetry and fine prose and bibliophilia, to graphic arts to Zen Buddhism to gardening to professional football to home-made beer…. the Pacific Northwest…calligraphy, Asian and Roman….the poetry, calligraphy, Zen and the person of Philip Whalen.

In most fields, Keith was senior, more knowing. He grew up in the Northwest; I’d only gone to school there. I watched football; he’d played it, alas. (His legs never recovered.) He was an accomplished writer. Keith also drew beautifully. With regard to Zen though, I was senior. I’d also practiced calligraphy longer. Not unconnected to these points, I lived for years at a time in daily contact with Philip Whalen.

The intercourse between Keith and me was never competitive though; our business was exchange — tips, knowledge (rumor would do), techniques. When I began to work on Whalen’s biography, Keith stood right there, his offering personal stories, texts, referrals, letters, essays, and hours of bright conversation. It is perhaps an under-appreciated fact of his oeuvre that Keith had himself written a fine memoir/critical biography of a poet, Downstream from Trout Fishing in America, about Richard Brautigan.

“Use legal folders,” he advised, on organizing unruly correspondence. “Or shallow boxes.” It was exactly right; it moved things forward, ordering both physical and mental space. This tiny example is evidence of much larger forces in Keith.

“For the 100th time, bodhisattva not Buddha,” Philip Whalen wrote in his journal one day. He seems to be saying that the aim of the Buddhist path is not an (imaginary) immobile state of Buddha-like royal ease and chill, but rather continuous engagement with the world’s troubles, against obstructions to that path. Classically, the bodhisattva conducts her-or-himself following the six paramitas, the six perfections. Foremost and fundamental of these is generosity.

Circling back to Berrigan, Ted is famously to have remarked that when someone dies, they go from your outer life to your inner life. So it should be no surprise that I now meet Keith in mind, where he continues his very sincere way along the bodhisattva path, practicing generosity. And the others: ethics, patience energy, meditation, and wisdom.

Lani provides this account of Keith’s final day:
And here is one of the many miracles that completed his life.  It was not until Saturday evening that I finally focused on Keith’s Zen.  I contacted the temple in Boulder with which Keith had had loose affiliation, and whose Sensei was a friend of Keith’s.  An ordained monk named Martin Mosko.  Martin, as I understood, no longer lived in Colorado and would be unavailable to chant for Keith.  However, looking for advice I sent an anonymous general message to the temple’s website.  Then I discovered that the temple was going into sessin the following morning for a week and I probably wouldn’t get a response.

Not so.  Early Sunday morning I got a call from Martin who was in town and immediately understood the message I sent was about Keith.  I explained what had happened and accepted that he would not be available. Oh no, said Martin, Keith is important and he requested permission to come that day to the hospice to chant for him.

And that was the release Keith needed to end his suffering.  The hospice nurse told me that when she came to attend to him later that evening, he was making a humming sound.  Are you chanting? she asked.  Yes.

Hours later, at 2AM I got a call from the nurse that Keith’s condition was finally changing.  I arrived at the hospice by 2:30, and he took his last breath at 3:15.

The miracle?  Martin was in town to lead the memorial sessin for Keith’s teacher, Kobun Chino Roshi, who had ordained him.

We brought Keith’s body home, dressed him in his robes and Martin and the monks came Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday in their ceremonial robes to chant during the 3 day vigil.

Zen is mysterious.  A couple of months ago Keith had a moment when he was able to speak a bit about his experience of dementia.  I asked him what Zen meant to him in his affliction.  His answer came from deep within.  He could no longer speak coherently, read his own work, or identify the day.  Unable to reason, he still knew the answer.

He quoted:  water sees water.

It was a privilege to be his partner.

After Deiryu                                                 

All Buddha’s have
snail nature 

Master & disciple
in a slippery line 

Training hard
for the grand perhaps 

inside the vast mishaps 

nothing stops

 —Keith Kumasen Abbott

Keith’s Art & Calligraphy
Keith Kumasen Abbott was a practitioner of the three perfections in art: painting, poetry, and calligraphy.  It is something he fell into easily as it coincided with his avid interest in Asian literature, particularly the Chinese and the Japanese, as well as his drift toward contemplative practice, largely as a result of his reading, and his down home Northwestern temperament, of course.  As with a core of Pacific Rim writers and artists, especially in the postwar era, the cultural transmission lines have been long established and the discourse is in progress.

Keith’s art reached a peak around the turn of the century with showings of his work in multiple gallery venues nationally and internationally as part of a group show in Shanghai.  It reveals an additional aspect to his creative sensibility in bringing a discerning contemporary eye to the practice of yet another ancient tradition.  Writing and painting have different names but the same body, the Chinese say, as well as employing the same instrument, the ink brush.  They enact a fundamental unity through a shared lexicon of brush strokes.  As in writing, painting utilizes space (the page, the canvas) as the matrix through which forms emerge and bring about an interchangeable sublimity so that in effect word has presence and presence speaks.  This is the language of Keith’s art.

Post Script: Last September (2018) Keith, in the prescient genius of his later decline, sent me the photo at the head of this post.  Actually, Lani sent it to me at Keith’s insistence. Of the four men shown in the photo I only recognize Keith (on the right)—the others, friends, writers, I would assume, taken in the mid-sixties on Cannery Row.  He captioned it with a handwritten note: “Hey—here’s a PIX to get your BACK BRAIN to work on. The right hand of smoker Keith—But what he holds in his left hand appears to be a home rolled kind—the right hand is drawing out a lighter. Presumably a cop car has just passed by and we ALL are acting Non-sha-lot, a lot!”  Keith thought I would know what to do with it.

Thanks is due to everyone for their contributions and encouragement in this memorial project for an old friend and a significant light in American art and letters.  As George so aptly reminded me, particularly in the world of literature, “You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone. . . .”

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Montreal Mastermind

The praise or public proclamation poem in the US is not exactly a lost art but one that has been relegated to inaugural sentiment, politic posture, public polemic, and John Philip Sousa huzzahs.  In fact, under tight-ass Anglo constraints, the praise poem is tainted with sinful hubris for any other purpose.  Unlike for the French who will apostrophize everything and anything.  There have been undoubtedly numerous panegyrics to the moment, particularly in the rhetoric of Greek and Roman antiquity, including weddings, graduation ceremonies, retirement banquets, funerals, and, just as deadly, art openings. However, thankfully, not all have been recorded or stood the test of time.  At the beginning of the so-called Modern era we are fortunate to have Apollinaire’s “Poem Read at Andre Salmon’s Wedding” which set the bar for the public poem of its day. We are also privileged, at the beginning of the 21st century, to have two beautifully realized examples by the French Canadian poet and philosopher Robert Hébert.

It should also be noted that, though often overlooked, French Canada is in some ways similar to Catalonia: a unique country and culture within another politically dominant culture and country.  For some of the poets of native attribution, the Acadian past looms large.  Montreal, one of the most cosmopolitan cities in North America, has a vibrant literary scene of which M. Hébert is a regular participant. These poets, writers, philosophers, because of their unique provenance, are Americanos as are all translingual authors of the Americas.  No matter the tongue, the language of poetry is universal. In Hébert’s nomination of a cohort of fellow artists as the “Ubiquiti” we should appreciate that the initial letter’s resonance echoes the 3 U’s of the Americas: Unis, United, Unidos.

Of “Prologue aux nouvelles clameurs (Prologue to the latest hue and cry)”, Robert Hébert notes: “On September 6 and 7, 2013, an amble through the theater and video installation “Berlin Calling” created by Daniel Brière and Évelyne de la Chenelière was held at the Goethe Institut in Montreal,.  Catherine de Léan and Marc Fortier piano with texts by Daniel, Évelyne and myself. Here is the Prologue which was vividly recited by Catherine de Léan”.   The “Prologue to the latest hue and cry” can be read in the original French at Onoups

Of the poem titled “Nelligan’s Fate after Finnegan’s Wake and vice-versa”, the text is in addition to the monologues written for the walk-through event “Berlin Calling” created by Daniel Brière and Évelyne de la Chenelière at the Goethe-Institut. Written on the occasion of an event entitled “Head in the clouds” on the performativity of living together. Unread text, was published here (in the original French) on Bloomsday day, 110 years after that day in Dublin with Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus.

The poems were translated by Pat Nolan who has previously translated M. Hébert’s minimalist work Histoire naturelles (Blue Pig, 1973) included as part of the text to Lost And Found In Translation which was also posted in this blog. The translator notes that the lines in italics in the body of the poems, and title of one, with the exception of epigraphs and dedications, remain in their original English, German, or Latin.

—Submitted to the membership
by the Parole Officer

Prologue to the latest hue and cry 

“Brother Jacques, brother Jacques, are you sleeping?”

Nursery rhyme,
theme of the funeral march by Gus Mahler,
Symphony No. 1, third movement.

In the beginning, the earth was brou and haha
The spirit of Pterodactylus hovered over the darkness
of the primitive soup
and the waters of unconsciousness.
Pterodactylus created man in his image,
and lent him the use of the word. . .
Man began to speak, to project gobs of sounds,
To address the heavens.
Greatly puzzled by this breath that
Passed through his own mouth.

Over days and nights, stardust created
stone, wood, delicacies,
papyrus, animal skins.
So many supports-surfaces.
And the hand of man finally traced the letters of the alphabet.
Astounding birth of Homo scribens.

We, Ubiquiti of the Millennium,
ubiquitous without borders
we like the first letter A.
Ah! pleasures, joys and sorrow everywhere,
admiration. . .regret. . .impatience. . .surprise. . .
ah! perplexity,
Ha! Ha! Look out. Achtung!
A’s echoing affects the blood makes it curdle.
The alphabetary would summarize the great adventure of man
with all the ups and downs of his journey.

Im Anfang war die Tat.
In the beginning was the deed.
No more gloomy theories, paper,
library, dog growls,
Faust uncovers the plot but has to make a pact
with that psycho Mephisto.

In the beginning was the language of the Third Reich,
That distorted, perverted the words, euphemized,
that “took care” (betreuen) of the malignant and undesirable
by accompanying them to their destruction. . .
Then one day, rubble,
despite all the jam packed walls,
up pops a Joseph Beuys.
aouou! accompanies coyote
and who? a Nina Hagen punkette.

In the beginning there is nothing of the All To Come.
There’s night at times, sex,
a world war, the deed already done.
Historic madness precedes every birth
and the unborn heed.

At the beginning there are points of departure,
a coastline, the rumor of dreams,
the chances of an adventure in an uncertain world,
the oceanic suspense.
Then the mouth of a river,
Amerika, Amerika! 

In the end the catalog of all memories will remain,
bygone pleas,
hub of actions to come, predictable.
The earth won’t be any less hustle and bustle,
Hustle bustle,
An otherwise primordial soup.

In a universe where stardust would have created
Nothing conscious,
philosophy would not be taught:
an extraordinary sun is necessary,
men and women,
an open wound, an injured humanity
for the philosopher to question
all that happens, alles was der Fall ist.
Ah!. . .but we only question with language, my friends:
Fish bones, the embers of books
caught in the esophagus.

Ladies and gentlemen,
meine Damen und Herren,
enter the labyrinth of the Goethe-Institut.
It’s the clamor,
the offbeat hubbub of the Ubiquiti;
ubiquity is a superior virtue of tourism.
To each the highlight of their evening,
the creation of a few flickers at the windows. . .
it will be the Berlin bunch
or Montreal on the Main.

New images, new enigmas or variations,
A little headway through the throng,
A throng
without identity papers,
fiction’s playground

Translator’s notes:
“supports-surfaces” references the 70’s French art movement.
Joseph Beuys was a German Fluxus, happening, and performance artist as well as a painter, sculptor, medallist, installation artist, graphic artist, art theorist, and pedagogue.
Catharina “Nina” Hagen is a German singer, songwriter, and actress. She is known for her theatrical vocals and rose to prominence during the punk and new wave movements in the late 1970s and early 1980s.
The Goethe-Institut is a non-profit German cultural association operational worldwide with 159 institutes, promoting the study of the German language abroad and encouraging international cultural exchange and relations.


Nelligan’s Fate after Finnegan’s Wake and vice-versa
(A wrench in progress/ English key in the works)

To Cecilia Sullivan and Jacob Hébert, auctioneer,
buried at Old Shediac Cemetery, NB

Here comes everybody
Here everyone enters
An inn of infinite mirrors
Bar open to the gullet, no sweat
Hod, cement and edifices facelifted
sleepers won’t sup at the Eucharistic meal of tongues
This is the eerie din of the Ubiquiti
In the wake of “Le Vaisseau d’Or”, the Berlin or Dublin network
Mutatis mutandis, let’s muon each other
Head in the clouds, sky is the limit
Dublin on the 53rd parallel
higher than the crater of Manicouagan, “the eye of Quebec”
sometimes snow and hail
Heinz cans everywhere
but it is never a matter of ketchup, my friends
So let’s finish Finnegan again

For you, Jean on the go, bush pilot
and noble hiker of the Americas
Homo canadensis erectus
For you, Nathalys and Lotte, flowers of the labyrinth
of the charming knacklaut, in love with the little dreamer Léolo
Home cured emigrants
For you, crusty Marco
ophthalmologist and atheist Jew in the land of the blind
Hush! Caution! Echoland!
counter hallucinations with calm
first scan your terrors and prejudices
Hostages and Co, Engineers, Pierre exclaims
guinea pig and engineer
bundler of new sounds
Haunting crevices of Eros, Phanie smiles
May the most intense of fires grab us by the gut
by our hearts and our minds

Finally for you Julien, troubled and honest
student of philosophical truths
who plays dominoes with the clones of Wittgenstein
to the island kingdom of nonsense
Hegel’s churned excrescences
Heidegger in song, besides!
haughty dogmas and beliefs at auction
Hardest crux ever
For sale, every truth bought, sold, traded or outdated
Who will say it better? Who will raise the stakes?
Who will boost the slumping gambols?

New alphabet t-shirts
abcdefghijklm NO PQ rstuvwxyz
Bouvard and Pécuchet copied the archives
Buvard and PQ stumble, fade, transpire
but without q no Queneau, Quebec, quark or queen
History, climate and entertainment
jangled annoying  nightmares
“Ah! How the snow has snowed”
permanent show business spasms
thin titters, da capo
P. and Q., the peach of all piedom, the quest of all quicks
afraid of the lively question
peace by the quantum or self-importance
Have we cherished such expectations?
Peequeens ourselves, the beautiful pickles in the brine
a mari usque ad mare

How comes ever a body
Listen to everyone in the crowd enjoy themselves, yea
TNT from aaah! … right up to zzzz
We Millennial Ubiquiti, Ubiquiti without borders
we love all the letters of the alphabet
highly charged with electronic meanings
Zarathustra dancing to zydeco airs in the bayous
and tralala in the shadow of an urubu
carrying a water moccasin
ZUP and ZEC, a priori priorities heterogeneous comforts or erogenous forests?
The air is full of mosquitoes and blood sucking bugs

I wandered in Dublin last century
to the Trinity College Library
along  the docks of the Liffey, a river dreamed
Heroticisms, catastrophes and eccentricities
To you the bartender who told me about King Heber
From the butts of Heber and Heremon, nolens volens
brood our pansies
overthink our thoughts, crush the black of our hooded violets
to you Louis Wolfson, student of schizoid language
glued to the short-wave of Radio-Canada
photographed with walkman in Montreal
did I pass you by one day?
To each his own Yiddish
To the beautiful Acadian at the Waldman Fish Market
who sang “in the buginning was my upheaval”
to a tune by Tom Waits
Lobsters cooked in roiling waters
and thanks to all the anonymous H. C. Earwicked who worked
with their two hammers, anvils, stirrups 

Happinest childher everwere
Here everyone begets
Living together, mission accomplished
Head in the clouds, looking Dionysian
Habituals conspicuously emerge
To the virtual offspring of David Nelligan and Émilie-Amanda Hudon
the follies of Ducharme aka Roch Plante
mosquito hawk in the shadow of a Nobel Prize
Finnelligans, Funnelliguns, wake up!
Cannon and chimney belched your resonant fire
poof! kites shape shift
“Humungous” cyber ecology
Sphinx assassin? pharynx redeemer
Delicate balance of long distance friends between languages
the empire of tiresomely-assumed equivocation, of Le Nez qui voque
then Phonelligone
with the wind

Translator’s notes:
Le Vaisseau d’Or; a sonnet by Quebec poet Émile Nelligan, composed in 1899, probably after the May 26 meeting of the École littéraire de Montréal, during which Nelligan received a standing ovation after reading “La Romance du vin”. This is Nelligan’s best-known poem.
“the eye of Quebec”;The Manicouagan Crater is one of the oldest known impact craters. It is in the Côte-Nord region of Québec, Canada. 
Bouvard et Pecuchet; an elaborate pun on the title of Flaubert’s unfinished novel.  In the original French “Bouvard et Pécuchet recopiaient les archives/ Buvard et PQ trébuchent, s’effacent, trépassent” that involves the sense of drinking and stumbling inherent on the tonic similarity between Bouvard and Buvard and the French for drinking, “buvard”.  Flaubert’s title is undoubtedly an elaborate tonic pun as well, given attention by Hébert’s “PQ trébuchent”.  PQ stands for Provence of Quebec, its previous postal designation.
Peequeens; a code switching tonic pun for “between” substituting the P and the Q, not referencing the notorious urination porn.  
a mari usque ad mare (from sea to sea) is the Canadian national motto.
Urubu; Portuguese for vulture, also a slang denigration.
ZUP and ZEC; ZUP is the acronym for “Zones urbaines en priorité” in France, kind of second zone suburbs for poor, migrants, awful buildings, etc.  ZEC stands for “Zone d’exploitation controlee”, kind of wildlife parks with camping sites.  
Zeugma; a figure of speech in which a word applies to two others in different senses (e.g., John and his license expired last week ) or to two others of which it semantically suits only one (e.g., with weeping eyes and hearts ). 
Louis Wolfson, born 1931 in New York, is an American author who writes in French. Treated for schizophrenia since childhood, he cannot bear hearing or reading his native language. He invented a process which consists of immediately translating every English sentence into a foreign phrase having the same sound and sense. He lived in New York, then in Montreal after his mother’s death. Since November 1994 he has lived in Puerto Rico where he became a millionaire on 9 April 2003 after winning the jackpot in a lottery game.
H. C. Earwicked; pun on Joyce’s dreamer in Finnegan’s Wake, also recurring theme of the Wake and this poem, HCE.
the virtual offspring of David Nelligan and Émilie-Amanda Hudon; Émile Nelligan was a French Canadian  poet born in Montreal on December 24,1879. He was the first son of David Nelligan, who arrived in Quebec from Dublin, Ireland at the age of 12. His mother was Émilie Amanda Hudon, from Rimouski, Quebec.  Nelligan is considered one of the greatest poets of French Canada. 
Roch Plante; In addition to being a playwright, scriptwriter and writer best known for his famous novel L’Avalée des avalés, Réjean Ducharme creates sculptures under the pseudonym Roch Plante.
Le Nez qui voque; the second novel by Quebec writer and playwright Réjean Ducharme. It was published by Gallimard in 1967.

Robert Hébert is a French Canadian author and experiential philosopher living in Montreal. He is the author of eleven books whose subjects range from philosophic meditations and cogitations, observations on the uniqueness of Quebecois culture and its Acadian past, and poetry.  His most recent book, Monsieur Rhésus, was published by Editions Nota Bene (Montréal, 2019)

Pat Nolan’s translations have appeared in numerous literary magazines including Otoliths, The World, Big Sky, Exquisite Corpse, and Contemporary Literature in Translation as well as in The Random House Book of Twentieth Century Poetry (1982) and Poems for the Millennium, Vol. I (1995).  His translation of Philippe Soupault’s Aquarium was published by Doris Green Editions in 1984 and a further selection of Soupault’s early work was issued from Pygmy Forest Press as Where The Four Winds Blow in 1993.


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