JACK KEROUAC

~ JUST TO LET YOU KNOW WE ARE STILL DOING

BACK ROAD CHALKIES [pdf file]

BILL KNOTT


A poet and publisher I much respect and admire the work of recently wrote that he made it a practice not to publish poetry because poetry doesn't sell. A nail in the coffin statement. If poets think this way, what hope is there for published poetry? Not much. Poets are supposed to be adventurous, ridiculous, dreamers, rabble-rousers, insane, scouts, fools, and in short magnificent. When you start thinking about money and success in publishing poetry you may as well be a tightrope walker who thinks about falling. It has nothing to do with falling. It has to do with floating. In publishing it has nothing to do with money and success, it has everything to do with taking a chance; a craftsman chance. Publishing that book the world needs, not the one they're expecting. When cutting a tree the woodsman who plants trees knows the trees. The tree knows him, too. Often the continuity is filled with grace. But not always, so plan to get dirty.

Laugh at me? I'll laugh at you, but I'm laughing.

Here below in the mail today is a box load of new books the poet Bill Knott has sent to me. I didn't ask. He probably believes he doesn't have to ask, he's adventurous. I've been reading Bill Knott's books since the late 60s and everyone knows the story of his somewhat hot commodity then, dear Saint Geraud, the tiny poems that knocked the block off most, small press and large press publishers, many books and I've read them all in the legit press and many in his latest appearance as self-publisher dynamo. He may have a rotten behavior or he may have inspired behavior, or maybe he's just a whiner, I don't care — at least he's a doer, and he gets his work up and out and about and pays for it somehow and thinks to share it with me and I share it now with you. The books are shiny black and white. If you threw them out into the snow, the words on the cover would shout out! and I even believe endure.

You're looking at a gift horse in the mouth.

WORSE


All my life I had nothing,
but worse than that,
I wouldn't share it


Bill Knott

FOOTNOTE


All of us who lived on earth
and all our loves and wars
may not appear at all
in the moon's memoirs.


Bill Knott





HUMIDITY'S TONES


Four AM, nothing moving, no hurry,
dawn still has time to be choosy
selecting its pinks. But now a breeze
brushes across me — the way my skin
is cooled off by the evaporation
of sweat, this artistry, this system
sombers me: when I am blown from
the body of life will it be refreshed?
I dread the color of the answer Yes.


Bill Knott

MAD MEN


Last Monday we planned with Midas to replace and install a new muffler with pipes on our old Toyota pickup. Over in New Hampshire, a haul to get there & back on a hot day. A formal appointment was made for 11 in the morning five days ago. All was on the up & up.

Of course we are there right on the dot today. The woman at the desk who we remember from three years ago (last muffler=why we return=warranty on muffler, not the pipes). She says a 15 minute wait. I check out the two workers, kids, both okay. They're milking their time but still okay, they've been told to work this way. The two managers running the floor are what concern me. One slob who is doing nothing but walking around and joking. TGIF written all over him. Then the shaved head character with tats and goatee and attitude. I also remember him from three years ago, likely he's married to the woman at the desk.

A half hour goes by. Nothing on our truck. At 11:30, with party horn blaring, a van arrives to order their din-din, all the workers pile out of the bays and leave their work to gab for at least 15 minutes while someone in the van makes their junk. Gab. Cars up on lifts unattended. Not a worker working. Our truck still out in the sun and it's 11:45. Hasn't been touched. I tell Sweetheart to hold tight (she's losing it) so I can see if these clowns are actually going to go back and forth and joke with the van from their work, touch a tool, head back, more jokes. During all this time two other bays are free and clear to bring any customer vehicle into.

Our truck sits until noon and then I see one skinny kid go out and bring the truck in and raise it on the lift. It's been an hour. We've been waiting this long just for an estimate. They've known we were coming since Monday. I go out to shaved head and say to him, square in the eye: "I just wanted to see if you would go past an hour before you even thought to touch my truck, which had a 11 o'clock appointment. Get it down off the lift, we're leaving. I'm also writing Midas headquarters." He stares at me.

The kid who takes it down off the lift is a little afraid of me and I smile to let him know nothing is wrong except with management. The kid apologizes and I tell him "all is okay, but it's too bad you aren't allowed to work like a real worker." He nods and actually says, "I know." We leave. Fuck'em. I wouldn't give them a dime if I was broken down on the highway.

The very worse of corporate and government sleaze bag America has now leeched down into the every day worker, the guy who taught me 50 years ago to pick up after myself, wash off the tools, hustle, tie the load down tight, clean out the truck cab, coil the hose, pull out every nail in the board then straighten the nails, wash out the brush, hold the ladder, check the oil, sharpen the blade, watch the line, sweep the floor, hang the door right, to open the door, to greet the day.

PHILIP ROWLAND

PHOTOS OF POETS


poet so sunk in thought it seems doubtful he’ll speak again
poet who has clearly done his thinking and attained an unassuming serenity
poet with wife and artist-collaborator in bed
poet standing dazed in a sunlit glade
poet skateboarding a Paris pavement
poet making a precise point
poet struggling to keep her hair in place
poet in a dim light, lit only by his laptop’s glare
poet hooded
poet pushing back her hair to reveal an underarm tattoo
poet who’s clearly made it through the menopause unscathed
poet with her little dog, smiling on behalf of them both
poet hugging a life-size papier-mâché lion
poet with members of the Ladies’ Bicycling Association
poet with a ripe apple
poet in silhouette cut out from newspaper classifieds
poet completely bald, clearly delighted
poet stepping eagerly up to the rostrum
poet presiding over his bone china collection
poet arranging tulips to her incomplete satisfaction
poet as a comic book character
poet looking kindly in Tibetan robes
poet with eyes only showing above his glowing T-shirt
poet digitally represented
poet with a finger in each ear, listening intently
poet on the verge of speech
poet with hand on heart and a Panama hat
poet with muscular arms crossed, in front of a slatted fence or beach hut
poet browsing through his many large books of visual poetry
poet holding a disposable camera at arm’s length, photographing himself
poet with lips pursed, in mid-decision
poet in defiantly heavy lipstick
poet nibbling his girlfriend’s ear
poet perched on a rock beneath a mountain pine
poet hunched attentively forward
poet with long hair and prophetic beard who’s just been listening to the Chico Hamilton Quintet
poet in conversation with another poet in an otherwise bare corner of an art gallery
poet in top hat, holding a rubber toy replica of Godzilla
poet in the poetry library’s cafeteria
poet in snappy snakeskin suit, perched on the edge of a 70’s hotel room bed
poet at an antique desk in a see-through fluffy dress, nibbling her pen-tip
poet giving his best man’s speech
poet at dawn on the beach
poet giving a grizzled, disarmingly direct stare
poet gazing out to sea
poet awash in books, leaning back in his chair
poet teaching cross-legged on a desk
poet who refuses to supply a photo, on principle
poet carefully lifting the lid of a piano

NO/ON is Philip Rowland's baby — a supremely elegant journal issued at least once a year from the quiet town of Tokyo, Japan. This journal harbors many of the finest poets at work worldwide in the small tool (poem) trade. Philip's latest book of poems is this newly released foldout of long & short poems from Longhouse. We happily share one of those poems from the booklet with you here.

40 YEARS AGO THIS WEEKEND, THE ULTIMATE WOODSTOCK NATION EXAMPLE

Bob Dylan, once known as "Alias" in a Sam Peckinpah film, was walking around the other day loose (like a Rolling Stone) in some neighborhood in NJ, and came up unrecognized by two cops in their 20s. I keep on saying: they just aren't teaching them like they used to.

One more case, a la Henry Gates, of a neighborhood watchdog calling in the authorities for something, or someone, "unusual".

Rest easy.

~ TWO SOULFUL INVENTORS HAVE PASSED ON ~

LES PAUL (Guitarist extraordinary)

Guitar mindful wizard and master innovator of the solid body electric guitar, whose childhood piano teacher wrote to his mother, “Your boy, Lester, will never learn music.”

RASHIED ALI (Jazz drummer)

“a multi-rhythmic, polytonal propellant, helping fuel Coltrane’s flights of free-jazz fancy.”

Go play them......

PRIMO LEVI







ALMANAC


The indifferent rivers
Will keep on flowing to the sea
Or ruinously overflowing dikes,
Ancient handiwork of determined men.
The glaciers will continue to grate,
Smoothing what lies beneath them.
Or suddenly fall headlong,
Cutting short fir trees' lives.
The sea, captive between
Two continents, will go on struggling,
Always miserly with its riches.
Sun, stars, planets and comets
Will continue on their course.
Earth too will fear the immutable
Laws of the universe.
Not us. We, rebellious offspring
With great brainpower, little sense,
Will destroy, defile,
Always more feverishly.
Very soon we will extend the desert
Into the Amazon forests,
Into the living heart of our cities,
Into our very hearts.


2 January 1987

translated by Ruth Feldman

Born in Turin Italy and dying there only a few months after writing the poem above, Primo Levi's poetry is probably less known than all of his other writings rich as memoirs, fiction and non-fiction. His slender Collected Poems roughly begins from his Auschwitz captivity, where Elie Wiesel commented at the time of Levi's death (disputed suicide) in 1987 , that "Primo Levi died at Auschwitz forty years earlier." Nonetheless, Levi's poetry speaks for endless time.

[& unable to help myself, here is another from a year earlier]



PROXY


Don't be afraid if the work is hard:
You who are less tired are needed.
Since your senses are fine-tuned, you hear
The hollow sound under your feet.
Consider our mistakes again:
We have also had among us
Someone who set about searching blindly
The way a blindfolded man repeats an outline,
Someone who set sail like the pirates,
And someone who tried his very best.
Help, insecure one. Try, though you're insecure,
Because you're insecure. See
If you can repress the annoyance and disgust
Of our doubts and certainties.
Never have we been so rich and yet
We live in the midst of embalmed monsters,
Other monsters obscenely alive.
Don't be dismayed by the rubble,
Or the stench of refuse dumps: we
Cleared them up with our bare hands
In the years when we were your age.
Continue the race, as best you can. We have
Combed the comets' mane,
Deciphered the secrets of origins,
Trampled the moon's sand,
Built Auschwitz and destroyed Hiroshima.
See: we have not remained inactive.
Take up the cause, perplexed one;
Don't call us teachers.



24 June 1986

FARE THEE WELL MIKE SEEGER
AUGUST 15, 1933 ~ 7 AUGUST 2009

WHEN ONE BIRD SANG TO ANOTHER

JAMES KOLLER & BOB ARNOLD READ TO ONE ANOTHER

(AND SOME OTHERS) IN VERMONT

BOB ARNOLD









DAY AND NIGHT



How often have we
Stepped together into water —
You left your clothes on the rocks
And shivered your way to me,
Said it was freezing as I thought
Of the mountain stream filling this
Clear basin of evening light, and how
Swallows showed us the angles of the sky
Far above barbed wire and pasture heat
Which we came down from after work
Smelling lilac in the breeze —
And it was the long blonde hair you shook
Out of a blue bandana and later braided
That had me remember the day and night.




from Where Rivers Meet (Mad River Press) noted in its image to the right

REMEMBERING CLARENCE SCHMIDT











It is the hour — any hour is — to remember Clarence Schmidt, the grass roots Woodstock, NY artist and his reign of building House and Gardens over a twenty year period (1952-1972). Ohayo Mountain to be exact is where Schmidt built and held fort with stupendous natural glee, creating roof top gardens, countless symbols and totems, and two sculpture structures — one reaching 7 storeys, and both lost to fire. One man's attempt at creating and interior/exterior living experiment mainly from used materials, found objects, castoffs, architectural mayhem, craftsmanship and deep wonder.

The above photograph "Doll Foot Shrine" is by Gregg Blasdel, thank goodness documented while Schmidt's structure was still afloat. One of myriad objects created and planted, holding its own aura over the region.