28 June 2009

more ties

all week poetry blogs have been abuzz abt the Buffalo reading by Huth & Beckett. I feel bad I was unable to attend. but in a small way I was a part of the weekend. Geof just sent me this picture of the readers wearing ties I maild them as part of "Tie One On."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

they should road-test varied presentational moxies, yea, & have some spot-thereabouts itinerant goals as well: Boise? the Bay Area? the University of Alabama? the Library of Congress? bawd Gotham?

tall Tom sitting there with the full 680 tabled in front of him, weighing, while gamin dja-phuth sat nearby above a lean & severely culled diminishment -- a framed visual fetish of sorts, yielding the sense that Tom kept running into surges, momentumful Huthian surges... that there was no specific surge inhibitor collaring where they, as duad, got to go... nor was there an end-in-sight factor; rather, the project was its own grand pa, with a generative impulse that kept "feeding forth"... Tom was reaping a whirly-gig, and a caul of giddiness kept overtaking his sense of vortices & eddies being quickened forth almost daily. Or rather, Tom was reaping a slew of whirly-gigs, Tom was often up whirly-gig creek without a paddle, Tom's sense of quip &or adage morphing into an inadequacy of clumsy, frantic strokes attempting to steer their canoe he knew not where -- all Tom knew was that he was having the ride of his life, & he didn't want it to conclude. He wanted, in spite of himself, in spite of his own covert & uniquely deliberate need for incaution, to stay loose upon he plain, hunkered yet gleeful, his own breathless smirk of perdurable self-consciousness stripped away by the whirl-Wind, mocked by it, flummoxed, transfixed & transformed by a phenomenon no amount of stutter-stopped preparatory denial could forestall. Tom was being had, a condition borne of a discipline of self-stalking now grievously interrupted. His exhilaration was/is at once palpable & dire.

A creative betrothal has occurred. Something momentumful slouches towards an ongoing fate birthing itself discreetly, repeatedly, without-pausedly. That fate -- can it be what audiences, despite all evidence of cool reserve, are primed to cheer for... even ones as off-roadishly miniscule as the one that applauded you two that one lovely lost evening recently in far-off Buffalo ?