At the very least, Kit's poem says something about the intensity of the rejection of the war in and around the Bay Area, while Rae's perhaps originates from the placid groves of denial in and around San Diego, home to many military. The strategies each has taken depend, it seems, on available or embedded assumptions that they extend or undermine in one way or another. There are certainly other mixes of aesthetics and politics out there. Such as, New York? Toronto?

BW

THE SOCIALIST STARE

Her lugubrious strings made her apologetic
So I “absolute music” to conduit better
And we our peregrine langor and heuristic envy
Concoct an experimeter ear clog cure.

You cannot write, “The world goes away from me.”
Sorting just happens – don’t dignify it.
Anymore some things like flowers are elusive.
However I’m certain that should it be found our hearts would customarily break.

USA Today

topple sighted speech until
it becomes very affordable.
regime lit only by lights
inside of a Mountain Dew machine.
it figures analysis is worth billions.
each drunk sees themself everywhere.
it's half-right to expect bang with
Starbuck, brewed with forgiving.
maggots say to mattress: "show
me, show me, show me" unless
brightness is cajoled through harrowed
frames. fix gazes with tuning
forks to think boxy. became
the dragon in the lake after
receiving many letters. spread
plastic across the faces you meet,
it's easy. Anon glides the harsh
undercurrents merrily. In the
land of mangled staples you execute
duties and co-chair commitees with
new found emptinesslessness. A
solid favor, the funeral of your
girls. convene, you virgins,
to trade cowardly thoughts
betrayed briefly. The hum finishes
off the patio for good. Shall
desires dust the mantle and
hutch? he's interested in
Eminem while waking bees.
Typically stonewashed and missing
mutations, globbing out a
warning like a hideous feather.

Two sidebars on the arts in the NY Times in the past few days. In one, Harold Bloom is donating his library to a small college rather to a large university because, he says, of the politics of "resentment" or *ressentiment* that drives the academy at present. He means that politics (race, class, and gender) are being used to deface the classic text, the "best that has been thought and said," etc. But is it also possible that those who see themselves outside of whatever version of authority Bloom or anyone else represents (the literary as the dead weight of the classics) are not in danger of politicizing ressentiment? (For defn. of the term, see *The Genealogy of Morals*.) This could even be true of certain strains of language writing--the lingual surface undermines the authorial presence of the master as a form of ressentiment to his purported but empty nobility. Are we in danger of politicizing, or seeing as political, what is finally reducible to anti-authoritarian impulse, and where does that lead? Is there a risk of the "social reproduction" of authority here?

Second trope: an article in today's NYT about Ron English, a "culture jamming" artist who puts up billboards (illegally, by pasting them over paid signage) that say things like:

SADDAM's SUVs
Oil Dependence
* Day Sale *
[Chevy logo] LIKE IRAQ

That's pretty bald, as language, but the point is its display on billboards in Jersey City. Is this effective political art?

BW

Ten to Anonymous

*

tracking the bling bling as if
it might lead to you, my termite,
Anonymous, who softens wood.
meet me in the desert like a
scorpion, sweet child. I burn
like a bush and mouth river
noises. my purple love, guide
me to precipice, canyons fit to
rave. around this center, losing petals.

*

my ballet distracted the Emporer.
five thousand ballet girls
called in sick this weekend.
Anonymous, these are dangerous
times to be squealing between
your thighs. but *someone* has
to. let it be me to measure
your shadow at solstice, damn
the curfews, bless the new stars.

*

yellow flag over Emporer's chariot.
we're seeing ghosts of those
not yet born, we're blending
in. great concert of wind
chills you, my love. I feel
it, too. what's terrible may
not last the night. later they'll
dredge the harbor, find out
lost clothes, lament a drowning.

*

10 rosebuds sent to your bedroom
after great distance. dig well &
drink of the water within them.
it is my water, from all sides
of me. a light moves on the
north sky line. trust it as
if it were my hand pleading.
heavy rain in twilight where you
aren't, which is everywhere, yes.

*

in speaking to your angel, my
jade, she warns me against
indecision. flags trumpets horns
drums and a placard: TOMORROW
THEY RING THE BELLS FOR US.
lay in my furrow, again, ferret,
or descend like an infant through
perfect clouds. demure to the flutes,
a source of constant zip.

*

a mere scoundrel, half-baked &
amateur am I, my swan. The
Emporer has declared me a nuisance.
let's become banditos, speak
only in dead languages. moon,
cloud, tower, these I'd build us.
Anonymous, I tremble across your
name like a sculler. you lit my
wick, which flutters outlaw. a
surplus of fever, sold at cost.

*

the warp and the woof, these are
from heaven. a lime sinks in
water, ignoring bubbles. I suffer,
Anonymous. I sit in my own
stink like a member of the downcast.
send me a silver bird at
midnight. whisper in your bed
and I'll know. I be damned,
send me a bit of string. we'll
make the faces of beasts and squeak.

*

only saints would listen to this rambling
and endure. you'd hear me over
the angelic chatter if I winked.
I've been yanked apart by pirates,
my chocolate blossom. like kites let's
bluster further away from childhood.
show me the comedy of your boots,
I'll faint and writhe. darling,
everything belongs to us. countless
circles of pennies, all wished out.

*

a happy thing falls and is quickly
swept up by the state. implicate
me, sublime recluse. Be my cheese,
lift your veil. futures fulfill,
demand of us patience and risk.
dove, meet me in the orchard.
agreed? by the subway? pee
with me in dark canals and
let's elope by a blackbird's caw.

*

we've been stealing fish, as you know.
Anonymous, why do we put up with
tyranny? down with empires, enemies
to all loves. they paid interest to
nobody. flush the cocaine and we'll
lie in groves of fallen walnuts,
my harmonica. wooing no more,
not wooing. pressed and folded
into unforgettable music, we've
ordered a feast hidden on the menu.

Setting aside Bloom's own dependence on resentment as a goad to critical judgment, I'd still take issue with his judgment. In the NY Times article, he mocks an unnamed professor who dares to teach Charlotte Smith and Felicia Hemans alongside the major male Romantics. But Charlotte Smith, I'd argue, is every bit as interesting a poet as Coleridge _in Bloom's own terms_ (richness of language, psychological insight, engagement with powerful precursors). She's also a much more credible pre-Romantic than Blake. As for Hemans: "Casabianca" is as deeply embedded in the post-Romantic imagination as any poem of Byron's. Only a few weeks ago I saw an episode of _The Rifleman_ in which the son stumbles through the opening stanza (assisted in the end by Claude Akins, who plays the Rifleman's former Captain in the Army)(http://www.tvtome.com/tvtome/servlet/GuidePageServlet/showid-1669/epid-126869/). Since "Casabiance" is about a boy who stays at his post on a burning ship because his father--and commanding officer--is unconscious and hasn't given him leave to go, the poem actually elaborates on the show's plot, which affirms the sanctity of intergenerational bonds and bonds of duty...and even includes a fire!

How much more classic can you get?

In response to Barrett's question, then, I'd say that resentment has no intrinsic political content; it depends on the case. The inclusion of Hemans in a course on Romanticism may follow from an "anti-authoritian impulse," but the work itself will call that impulse into question. Smith's work, by contrast, calls authority into question, pointing the reader toward an independence that Smith could only imagine as dangerous, dark and painful, but which she still preferred to the alternative:

Dependence! heavy, heavy are thy chains,
And happier they who from the dangerous sea,
Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains
An hard-earn'd pittance--than who trust to thee!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
More noble than the sycophant, whose art
Must heap with taudry flowers thy hated shrine;
I envy not the meed thou canst impart
To crown _his_ service--while, tho' Pride combine
With Fraud to crush me--my unfetter'd heart
Still to the Mountain Nymph may offer mine.

--Charlotte Smith, "To Dependance"

On the one hand, Smith is writing precisely against ressentiment, which would be the dependence on the power of the nobility as the frame for freedom. She would like to liberate herself from that dependence, which is painful, and meet the "Mountain Nymph" in an embrace. On the other, she is positing abstractions as the ground for her freedom--for someone like Bloom, she should do this by summoning her own spirit, should she not, but has to make up antagonists to overcome--hence recycling dependency. Of course, one might find Bloom's positing of abstractions such as "race, class, and gender" to be the same kind of limit on his purported freedom.

BW

This is a sharp reading of Charlotte Smith's relation to Bloom's "school of resentment." Looking deeper into her life and work only amplifies the reading, for--although you wouldn't know it from the poem--she didn't need "to make up antagonists to overcome." The source of her anguish and the object of her scorn was the _ultimate_ abstraction: Law, which Smith experienced concretely as a consequence of her husband's debts and the long legal battle over her father-in-law's will. As Stuart Curran writes in his introduction to _The Poems of Charlotte Smith_ (this will interest you, Barrett, vis-a-vis Section X of _Bad History_):*

"[The will] was written without benefit of appropriate legal advise, and so scrupulous was it in its complicated attempt to preserve the patrimony from the son's dissipations that its various terms were actually incompatible. The estate was thus plunged into a litigation of Dickensian intricacy whose principal issues took twenty-three years to sort out, and both [Charlotte and her husband] were long dead before the final settlement actually took place. The bulk of the estate was siphoned off into legal fees, and, incredible as it may seem, the four surviving children of Charlotte Smith who had been the main objects of her father-in-law's protective codicils were unable until 1813, thirty-seven years after his death, to claim their shares in his estate.

"A sense of the legal system as an arbitrary machine of power operating without any essential relation to equity runs deep in Smith's writing. It is augmented by her recognition that the law is a social code written by men for a male preserve, and that the principal function of women within its boundaries can only be to suffer consequences over which they have no control."

I gather that Smith's novels--which I haven't read--give protracted evidence of this "recognition," but here is a passage cobbled together from the first book of _The Emigrants_:

How often, when my weary soul recoils
From proud oppression, and from legal crimes
(For such are in this Land, where the vain boast
Of equal Law is mockery, while the cost
Of seeking for redress is sure to plunge
Th' already injured to more certain ruin
And the wretch starves, before his Counsel pleads)
How often do I half abjure Society,
And sigh for some lone Cottage, deep embower'd
In the green woods, that these steep chalky Hills
Guard from the strong South West; where round their base
The Beach wide flourishes, and the light Ash
With slender leaf half hides the thymy turf!--
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
For I have thought, that I should then behold
The beauteous works of God, unspoil'd by Man
And less affected then, by human woes
I witness'd not; might better learn to bear
Those that injustice, and duplicity
And faithlessness and folly, fix on me:
For never yet could I derive relief,
When my swol'n heart was bursting with its sorrows,
From the sad thought, that others like myself
Live but to swell affliction's countless tribes!
--Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought[.]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ah! Mourner--cease these wailings: cease and learn,
That not the Cot sequester'd . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Or more substantial farm . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Or any of the buildings, new and trim
With windows circling towards the restless Sea,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Can shut out for an hour the spectre Care

At this point a group of refugees from the French Revolution washes up on shore. The refugees are representatives of the nobility and church, and their condition of exile--with which Smith identified, having left England for France at one point to escape her husband's debtors--calls forth a sympathy that is not an instrument of resentment in Bloom's sense: her poem is _not_ a denunciation of the French Revolution. Sympathy and political belief are not identical in Smith, but mutually informing.

This is where your "on the one hand"/"on the other" reading of "To Dependence" finds its strongest confirmation. The school of resentment in Bloom's apocalyptic world view is a crypto-religious phenomenon; it divides the world into forces of light and dark--this is why he himself belongs to it, even though he wants to leave his library elsewhere. Smith's world view, darker overall, is much more sensitive to gray. In Bloom's terms: her beliefs are too heterodox to sit comfortably on the altar of "Race, Class and Gender"--a religious trinity insofar as the three are seen as separate workings of a single abstract principle of oppression.

BF

* Sample sentences: "Like an obelisk commemorating the birth of some failed romantic, his disembodied will circulated in a space of indistinct fields and trees to guarantee a date of prospective return--with which I disagree.... In such wise by opposition had I taken on my sobriquet 'The Executor' in homage to his dysfunctional will." (_Bad History_)

Right, this is another route to a politics. Instead of a law that I must suffer to overcome in my desire to replace it in my own interest, the notion of an incoherent law that can only lead to empathy (or even curiosity). It has always surprised me that the avant-garde, which should be "outside the law" and therefore honest, has been so afflicted with premature canonization (and whatever positional gripes and complaints go along with its sense of injustice or exclusion). If the "law" or "canon" is an important sense self-contradictory (for one thing, in its solipsism and self-reference; "the eye altering alters all"), that ought to suggest that the mere contestation of the canon is, in fact, its reproduction on the strictest terms. And this is where a lot of the politics of the avant-garde ends up--in a dead end.

Thanks for the discussion of Charlotte Smith--very useful.

BW

“Are we in danger of politicizing, or seeing as political, what is finally reducible to anti-authoritarian impulse, and where does that lead?” Isn’t an anti-authoritarian impulse obviously political? How can it be otherwise, and who knows where it leads? The possibilities seem inevitably various.

“Is there a risk of the "social reproduction" of authority here?” Of course.

The “law and the avant-garde” being curious albeit confusing, perhaps some further explanation is required?

From where or by whom, for example, does “premature canonization” originate, and what’s the rush? The result of such can only serve to diminish community in favor of personality, a.k.a., so and so’s “a poet,” as if anybody should care, and rather than simply getting down to work, such as in the making of poems, or whatever one prefers to make.

And might there exist some differentiation between contesting “the canon” (fighting the cannon makers), and acknowledging that, in fact, each individual writer writes from within and in resistance to a personal canon which necessarily accumulates and evolves according to quirk circumstance and even accident: a process which only enlarges and optimizes possibilities, at variance from one person to another, peculiar as each may be, and again therefore serving to strengthen the notion of community and perhaps contributing to political resiliency and as opposed to that which is otherwise rigid? Of whatever the canon consists, it always seems open to revision, though as it is taught in the strict parameters of the classroom, might it risk becoming unfortunately exclusive due to sheer mass? Why should anybody want this limiting factor within expansive social structures?

When anybody mentions the “avant-garde” anymore, I have no idea to what they actually refer. The very term seems to me “dead end” and cliché. By now we should have become accustomed to a variety of communicative strategies and prepared for recognizing accompanying tactics which might appear initially challenging or confrontational. Do people too easily squirm when confronted with that which is unfamiliar?

What has poetics to do with community, law, politics? Wherein lies an optimal strategy for improving upon that which is either local or large? If we agree that humans have much room for improvement, what has poetics to do with this need?

Are poetics today sealed off from the mineral world as well as the world of the living? One and the same, what has all this to do with environmental degradation, an ongoing ontological crisis?

And so on...

“Are we in danger of politicizing, or seeing as political, what is finally reducible to anti-authoritarian impulse, and where does that lead?” Isn’t an anti-authoritarian impulse intrinsically political? How can it be otherwise, and who knows where it leads? The possibilities seem inevitably various.

“Is there a risk of the "social reproduction" of authority here?” Of course.

The “law and the avant-garde” being curious albeit confusing, perhaps some further explanation is required?

From where or by whom, for example, does “premature canonization” originate, and what’s the rush? The result of such can only serve to diminish community in favor of personality, a.k.a., so and so’s “a poet,” as if anybody should care, and rather than simply getting down to work, such as in the making of poems, or whatever one prefers to make.

And might there exist some differentiation between contesting “the canon” (fighting the cannon makers), and acknowledging that, in fact, each individual writer writes from within and in resistance to a personal canon which necessarily accumulates and evolves according to quirk circumstance and even accident: a process which only enlarges and optimizes possibilities, at variance from one person to another, peculiar as each may be, and again therefore serving to strengthen the notion of community and perhaps contributing to political resiliency and as opposed to that which is otherwise rigid? Of whatever the canon consists, it always seems open to revision, though as it is taught in the strict parameters of the classroom, might it risk becoming unfortunately exclusive due to sheer mass? Why should anybody want this limiting factor within expansive social structures?

When anybody mentions the “avant-garde” anymore, I have no idea to what they actually refer. The very term seems to me “dead end” and cliché. By now we should have become accustomed to a variety of communicative strategies and prepared for recognizing accompanying tactics which might appear initially challenging or confrontational. Do people too easily squirm when confronted with that which is unfamiliar?

What has poetics to do with community, law, politics? Wherein lies an optimal strategy for improving upon that which is either local or large? If we agree that humans have much room for improvement, what has poetics to do with this need?

Are poetics today sealed off from the mineral world as well as the world of the living? One and the same, what has all this to do with environmental degradation, an ongoing biotic and thereby ontological crisis?

And so on...

A brief note on the usage of "avant-garde": if you lived in Detroit, you would have no trouble locating what counts as avant-garde. There's the productivist lifeworld, and then there are forms of oppositional culture that take exception to it by foregrounding, refashioning, defamiliarizing its constitutive elements--in what I have called a "systemic detotalization." Why that doesn't work in art-saturated environments like New York or San Francisco, where it is very difficult to distinguish the establishment from the avant-garde at times, would be twofold: 1) the distance of the art world from the production; 2) the redundancy of oppositional strategies to the point that they become rearticulations of existing structures. Does this mean we should abandon the "avant-garde"? No, in the largest sense--the sense that, for instance, our national polity is run at the behest of the productivist lifeworld, and gas prices have come down to almost $1.50 a gallon after the expenditure of several billions to invade Iraq. This necessitates countermeasures, does it not? The avant-garde provides the means for an alternative, beginning with the imperative to imagine one.

BW

Yes, so difficult to imagine one. This is not that, but maybe it's something, else & depicted:

Manikins in Thought

So often manikins in thought are female,
gut smooth as 25 weight cotton bond
open to being written on, announced
from a semi-circular desk, though
really, many are male.

I liked waking to this 5 a.m. man sculpting
a bust of Socrates from woo & wood &
others giving.

Lessons, directions: I fell asleep missing
your voice. There was another war. Diotima
was earliest in *the fragility of goodness*--
anyone could follow the raised brow-lines of
desire in halcyon television glow & I grew
sad over the absolute lack of scent but the
5 a.m. man was there widening the 4 o'clock
able.

& he finished immediately to start on the hair
now, spreading it long, curly & entangling
it as artiface in the camera butt-pivots,
manifesto (he wears a silk royal blue shirt,
red tie).

Though I've no sound, the answers are built-in.

Here comes a finely sapphic charioteer more
machina than doubt where my doubled M
is enjoined to rise without touching
another blizzard of white-screen spackling.

Barrett: "Instead of a law that I must suffer to overcome in my desire to replace it in my own interest, the notion of an incoherent law"

At issue here are two kinds of antinomianism. One is prophetic and offers its critique from outside the law's horizon . The other is historical and offers its critique on the ground of experience. Of course, there are antinomians who move freely between the two. Melville comes to mind, going to the Pacific to take in America from the long end of his telescope, then reproducing America in a ship. But--as Rorty likes to say--a fuzzy distinction is still a distinction.

Do you know the Olson poem reproduced below? Butterick dates it 1942-44; it strikes me as a truer starting point for his work than "The K," and an exemplary instance of prophetic antinomianism:

THE LAW

Blackstone is gone.
They laid his unwieldy weight
in a crate
rolled the ton through the gate
and carried him away.

Man shall have new law
man shall have new law!

Related to the recent discussions at various venues on the politics of poetry: "Two remarks on the politics of form," by me, and "Notes on War Aesthetics," by Joshua Schuster, at VeRT

http://www.litvert.com/issue8.html

Kent Johnson

Manikin Pis

oh red director,
dye your licks, oh
thumbband faust,
call the lights
down from the lights
pull a quick knot
a pocket
a cap
a jar
from ether
to dust
a port hole
to grind your poor soul
to pour it out.

"I placed a statue in Bruges
A boy it was, upon a fountain.
It made the bourgeois town
Surround that fountain."

and throw out your words like money
(it's all like money)
they'll gather round, in crowds
and watch you spray the fountain down.

-- Greta Byrum

"my goodness, were there that many faces?
is it possible that there were that many faces
in the whole country?"

*Sin Duda*

*e tem razao* particular to yellow the silence
was mistaken by cliche to be nothing

“from ether to dust”

we are just now beginning, again

& philosophy, blushing, *sin duda,*
*y vayan con dios,* fueling the world
to police money & more
police.

it is the hour.
in Birmingham, my friend
will soon rise to teach.
dogwood, fuschia asterisks
suspended on foreshortened
limbs a poet like Ezra could like--
knowing this
he says he cannot go on.

gender speaks tho
is not speech
nor is this oratio:

*voce e*
voice

do not sound alike--

“Di la memoria temblando como siempre e
n las raices o la piel que deseas y no
tocas.” [Speak memory trembling like always in
the roots or skin you want but don’t
touch.]
Porque a veces no est
as solo en tu cuerpo.
[Because sometimes you
are not alone in your body”]--Octavio Armand/Carol Maier--

I am listening to the mockingbirds
out my window. On a phone line
over the parking lot they have learned
well to imitate Chevrolet car alarms.
I am always in love
with them because they understand,
they employ
surprise.
This is Texas.

chris murray

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When compared to the Stack, the Heap is a simple thing to understand. All the memory that's left over is "in the Heap" (excepting some special cases and some reserve). There is little structure, but in return for this freedom of movement you must create and destroy any boundaries you need. And it is always possible that the heap might simply not have enough space for you.

When the machine compiles your code, however, it does a little bit of translation. At run time, the computer sees nothing but 1s and 0s, which is all the computer ever sees: a continuous string of binary numbers that it can interpret in various ways.

Seth Roby graduated in May of 2003 with a double major in English and Computer Science, the Macintosh part of a three-person Macintosh, Linux, and Windows graduating triumvirate.

Being able to understand that basic idea opens up a vast amount of power that can be used and abused, and we're going to look at a few of the better ways to deal with it in this article.

To address this issue, we turn to the second place to put variables, which is called the Heap. If you think of the Stack as a high-rise apartment building somewhere, variables as tenets and each level building atop the one before it, then the Heap is the suburban sprawl, every citizen finding a space for herself, each lot a different size and locations that can't be readily predictable. For all the simplicity offered by the Stack, the Heap seems positively chaotic, but the reality is that each just obeys its own rules.

:) Interesting!

:) Interesting!

:) Interesting!

:) Interesting!

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