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La Luz Azul & St. Anthony in the Desert

Becoming Angels & Wedding

When a few fateful re-tweets put me into contact with Egyptian-American poet and ‘seeker’ Yahia Labadidi, I never expected to come across a work with such suave girth.

Any real learning is contingent upon judicious digression.

The Prayer, The Fortieth Day, & Open House

Institutional art is an oxymoron. It's like fat free sausage. Why bother?

River Song & Profit/Margin

les figues

  OUR LADY OF THE FLOWERS, ECHOIC BY CHRIS TYSH LES FIGUES PRESS, 2013  CUNT NORTON BY DODIE BELLAMY LES FIGUES PRESS, 2013 1. Pins Ups: Covering the Classics  “I realized early on that the academy and the literary world alike — and I don't think there really is a distinction between the two — are always dominated by fools, knaves, charlatans and bureaucrats.'                           - Harold Bloom in an interview in Criticism in Society (1987), edited by Imre Salusinski  The literary landscape is a sensitive thing.  One has to be careful, especially if loaded words are used. Originality. Authenticity.  The Western Canon.  Les Figues Press throws a wrench into those hallowed notions with two new poetry collections, Our [...]

The radical poetry of 100 years ago was not radical in terms of style. It was conventional in terms of style and this doomed much of it.

The Mimic Sea is not unlike searching for a radio station: half of one song comes in like crystal, but the next is a chorus of snow.

The internet revolution has taken books and publication out of the control of the gatekeepers and the prevailing standard makers. So I predict the "reform" (which is already happening) will not be related to "publish or perish" but to "get grants get prizes, and funding or perish."

L’Olive: sonnet 28

I came to admire Levertov only after I was approaching forty and she had recently died. I was old enough then to appreciate her seriousness of purpose. I came to admire her the way I had Muriel Rukeyser.

End of Lifed

I have a vision for readings in which everyone is welcome--in which 80 year olds and teenagers, good poets and bad poets, normatives and crazies meet on equal footing because, in the ceremony of bread, in James and Buber, your "personage" is what you leave behind when you enter the temple.

Late in the forest I did Cupid see