This week I was incautious about race. I wrote an essay about a poem I liked for the Sharkpack Poetry Review. Although I praised the poem, I also wanted to explore how it ‘worked’ and my understanding thereof. This led me to write a sentence where I drew a link between a poetic technique of using language in a way that was reminiscent of ESL and the poet’s background.

I thought the choice was interesting and good and ‘useful.’ I believe that poetry is uniquely suited to destroying the prescriptivist approach to language and all the imperialist baggage that comes with it.

The poet, Wendy Xu, wrote on her tumblr, facebook, and twitter, that I was limiting minority writers and throwing them out of their own language. She was deeply offended and let the world know. Being an important young poet with social media savvy, Wendy’s declaration led to hundreds of people reading my review with the notion that I was a pompous racist dickbag. A twitter-versy arose that I missed because I don’t use twitter and forgot how it worked. My silence there amounts to either an acceptance or dismissal of the charges and so I feel compelled to publicly address them.

I have felt weak and nauseated for days now. My life has been one long active and passive struggle against inequality, but even that protestation sounds idiotic. I can’t prove that I am not racist or imperialist. Any attempt to do so discounts the views of a minority writer and minimizes the enormous fact of racism itself. Imperialism is real. I have no doubt that the poet has felt limited and judged by a white poetic establishment that fears her. I am not a part of that establishment, and do not hold those views, but I expressed myself in a way that made it seem, to some, as though I was and did.

After a sleepless night I wrote a badly worded and typo-y explanation to Wendy Xu but haven’t received a response. Either she never saw the email or doesn’t care about any response that is not public. My reputation is stained and I have been linked to those I detest the most. I thought about spending days composing a thorough response, but frankly this is all I can muster. I have no good options. I didn’t mean what she thought I meant, but I can’t prove it, and any attempt to do so with inevitably fail. So instead I offer this half-fledged thing.

flarf is dada outsourced

but I hadn’t heard any of the flarfiliated poets mention it. I googled the above insight (is all googling a protoflarf moment? Probably) and found this intelligent essay by Rick Snyder that confirms I am clever if not original.

I may have encountered flarf previously and forgotten it, but it was brought (back?) to my attention because Pen published The Revolt of the Peasant Girls by Anne Boyer. The poem in turn repulsed and intrigued me, but through that see-saw fun I began to know that Anne Boyer was a Kansan. So I protoflarfed her.

I like Anne Boyer. I am going to ask her out. By which I mean I am going to ask her to submit something to The Habit. That’s the journal I am starting. I don’t so much bury a lede as make of it a horcrux .

Sarah and I used to collect poems by the ‘gentle spambot‘ which were those strings of words at the end of spam messages. Unlike flarf poems, the bot’s work was primarily sincere. It was innocent, Anne Boyer. Language sucking itself in a world that was all womb.

The pixel and the page

I wrote the following set of scenes at a pub this afternoon. I was reading Bitov’s The Symmetry Teacher, drinking the free near-pint at the bottom of a Smithwick’s keg, and in an emotional welter.

I tried to transcribe it here, clean, dress, and feed it, but it resisted. Like a deep sea creature, exploding from an absence of pressure.

There is that which cannot live here, that which the blogosphere spirits will not allow.

I quote it, however, as though it were some preinternet text.

My ambition, my goad, is to know and perform all literary art. Poetry, prose, and potboiler. Trash, mere information, theory, close read, essay, memoir, tabloid, joke, and pun. Lucid observation, fuddlement, and hallucination and the shared hallucination at the base of the real.


Alana tells me about her lovers and most of the telling later subsumes into one or two details.
This is how I understand stories.
He put his hand over her face to take the measure of each.
I have come to welcome her lovers into my desire.
His hand is the many in the I. Her face is the spring from whence all art…


I came to my work with the scientist’s ambition to godhead. But myth not math is my medium.


The Indian chief is dying. His wounds will not heal. He is covered in sores, swellings, and scabs red and hot. His features are deformed. He calls for his horse, but his people will not bring her. He calls for his horse, but his people will not bring her. He calls for his horse. He says he wants to ride to Death’s country like a warrior. His people bring his horse. They help him to mount. He is unsteady in the saddle. He clicks his tongue. He digs in his heels. His horse runs. He rides out of the village, into the setting sun, toward the infinite plain. His scabs break. His sores shower him and his horse with puss. His grasp fails and he falls, comical, into the grass. His people retrieve him and prepare for his death. But he does not die. He recovers. He thought he would ride his horse to Death but rode instead to life.


I said once, in casual, meaningless, and complete honesty, the kind known only as a sensation once the saying has passed, that I was searching for compositional laws at the base of all known arts.

“Let me know if you find any.”
“Oh I probably won’t, but I like where the search takes me.”

Those hills are not hills

Fair is the sight from the midst of the Dnieper of the high hills, the broad meadows, and the green forest! Those hills are not hills: they have no foot; they are sharp-peaked at both bottom and top; under them and over them is the tall sky. Those woods standing on the slopes are not woods; they are hair growing on the shaggy head of the old man of the forest. Under it his beard washes in the water, and under his beard and over his hair–the tall sky. Those meadows are not meadows: they are the green belt tied in the middle of the round sky, and the moon strolls about in both the upper and lower half.
–Nikolai Gogol. Translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky

So much to admire here; each idea is surprising. After the banal though idyllic beginning, one expects the broad meadows to follow the high hills, but instead Gogol jumps to the woods. In each image a sphere is explained, but in each the sphere is different, until at the end we are given the moon, strangely aligned with the green belt of the meadows. The entire set of imagery is at once anthropomorphic and mechanistic while still retaining the feeling of a folktale.

I am so much further from the materials, both cultural and natural, than Gogol, but this feeling is what I want.

grub worms are spun of opal and emerald

Wood squelched against wood, planed from eastern forests, alien to this land, under the burden of two childless pioneers, Ikka and Anders, the clamor of their possessions, Xena, the nanny goat, and a few anonymous hens. The mob of grasses heard the nervous squeal of the eastern wood and mocked the wagon, had done so since they crossed the Missouri, for its rigidity, its helplessness before the wolf tornado or the weeping of the ghost creek women. And though some grasses were bent beneath the heavy wheels, they rolled back out of the dirt like wrestlers so that before her the wagon saw nothing by nettling grasses and behind more of the same and the trees were few and crooked and small and soft and stared uncomprehendingly at the fine tight grain of the hardwood. The grasses said turn back, this land eats fine lumber like you, whether thunderbird, or Waziya cold, or mildew swarms, or the fires that keep we grasses, we perfect grasses, in fine shine and trim, some grandeur will strike you down and you will die here abandoned, shabby and ill-used. For our ancestors were seaweed and kelp; we know ancient secrets and have made treaties with every frightening thing and live in subterranean cities rich beyond compare. Our grub worms are spun of opal and emerald. Even now you can feel the pull of our cities, dragging you under, cell by cell, where you will surrender your singularity–arrogant once-tree–and become the flesh of grasses. The wagon, who can blame her, groaned and shivered, but was not entirely cowed, for she carried within her belly an iron vengeance, wait until you see the plow, bitch grasses, and feel it snap the spires of your root cities, upend and despoil them, for I will die and you will die but the plow and what it brings will not.

Giants and Spiders


Teton (Lakota Sioux)

The giant called Waziya knows when there is to be a change of weather. He is a giant. When he travels, his footprints are large enough for several Indians to stand in abreast. His strides are very far apart; at one step he can go over a hill.

When it is cold, people say, “Waziya has returned.” They used to pray to him, but when they found he paid no attention to him, they ceased to do it.

When warm weather is coming, Waziya wraps himself in a thick robe. But when cold weather is coming, he wears nothing at all. Waziya, the giant god of the north, and Itokaga, the god of the south, are ever battling. Each in turn wins the victory.




There once lived, in a remote part of a great forest, two widowed sisters, with their little babies. One day there came to their tent a visitor who was called Unktomi (spider). He had found some nice red plums during his wanderings in the forest, and he said to himself, “I will keep these plums and fool the two widows with them.” After the widows had bidden him be seated, he presented them with the plums.
On seeing them they exclaimed “hi nu, hi nu (an exclamation of surprise), where did you get these fine plums?” Unktomi arose and pointing to a crimson tipped cloud, said: “You see that red cloud? Directly underneath it is a patch of plums. So large is the patch and so red and beautiful are the plums that it is the reflection of them on the cloud that you see.”

“Oh, how we wish some one would take care of our babies, while we go over there and pick some,” said the sisters. “Why, I am not in any particular hurry, so if you want to go I will take care of my little nephews until you return.” (Unktomi always claimed relationship with everyone he met). “Well brother,” said the older widow, “take good care of them and we will be back as soon as possible.”

The two then took a sack in which to gather the plums, and started off towards the cloud with the crimson lining. Scarcely had they gone from Unktomi’s sight when he took the babies out of their swinging hammocks and cut off first one head and then the other. He then took some old blankets and rolled them in the shape of a baby body andlaid one in each hammock. Then he took the heads and put them in place in their different hammocks. The bodies he cut up and threw into a large kettle. This he placed over a rousing fire. Then he mixed Indian turnips and arikara squash with the baby meat and soon had a kettle of soup. Just about the time the soup was ready to serve the widows returned. They were tired and hungry and not a plum had they. Unktomi, hearing the approach of the two, hurriedly dished out the baby soup in two wooden dishes and then seated himself near the door so that he could get out easily. Upon the entrance of the widows, Unktomi exclaimed: “Sisters, I had brought some meat with me and I cooked some turnips and squash with it and made a pot of fine soup. The babies have just fallen asleep, so don’t waken them until you have finished eating, for I know that you are nearly starved.” The two fell to at once and after they had somewhat appeased their appetites, one of them arose and went over to see how her baby was resting. Noting an unnatural color on her baby’s face, she raised him up only to have his head roll off from the bundle of blankets. “‘My son! my son!” she cried out. At once the other hastened to her baby and grabbed it up, only to have the same thing happen. At once they surmised who had done this, and caught up sticks from the fire with which to beat Unktomi to death. He, expecting something like this to happen, lost very little time in getting outside and down into a hole at the roots of a large tree. The two widows not being able to follow Unktomi down into the hole, had to give up trying to get him out, and passed the rest of the day and night crying for their beloved babies. In the meantime Unktomi had gotten out by another opening, and fixing himself up in an entirely different style, and painting his face in a manner that they would not recognize him, he cautiously approached the weeping women and inquired the cause of their tears.

Thus they answered him: “Unktomi came here and fooled us about some plums, and while we were absent killed our babies and made soup out of their bodies. Then he gave us the soup to eat, which we did, and when we found out what he had done we tried to kill him, but he crawled down into that hole and we could not get him out.”

“I will get him out,” said the mock stranger, and with that he crawled down into the hole and scratched his own face all over to make the widows believe he had been fighting with Unktomi. “I have killed him, and that you may see him I have enlarged the hole so you can crawl in and see for yourselves, also to take some revenge on his dead body.” The two foolish widows, believing him, crawled into the hole, only to be blocked up by Unktomi, who at once gathered great piles of wood and stuffing it into the hole, set it on fire, and thus ended the last of the family who were foolish enough to let Unktomi tempt them with a few red plums.