ON THE ASSUMPTION OF THE ELITE, AND THEIR CHARTS, MAPS, AND A TASTE OF THEIR OWN MEDICINE

dregs of the cocktail party face-off the molotov cocktail outing

The skewed level of prosodic competence "in" composition-- in particular the phrenology of the samples I'll affix for examination on my trays of black wax--of these System savants below considered the best poets ("champions", ie. most decorated and most festooned with redundant Over-dawg awards and monied chairs) the New York Publishing "New England" Ivy Academic Military/Industrial Complex has to offer, (or even in this case, sacrifice, if necessary!) can only be best described as mental, emotional, and, mostly, sociopathic symptoms, dis-ease, brought on by "inbreeding" if not out and out "incest". Figuratively but structurally besides.

As all such closed Systems tend through their quotient of Entropy and as this process of hypostasis is irreversible (only true if the exception is true, namely that there exists at least one reversible reaction under structurally identical conditions) so the savor of the samples

I present may fade into the background

tastelessness of the rules of order,

and make the offending poet prosaic'ly

sympathetic to the choir-boys.

The Monolithic NYC Publishing/N.E. Ivy Academic Axis Kapitalist Force is just this sort of closed system while it is important to realize that its "good" soldiers (as the above is the aggressive that conducts the Culture Wars and maintains, intellectually, marketing, for the ruling class, the Class War) especially where its company poets are concerned, as poets are frequently of a higher, "non-fiction", dispensation, are the "victims" (look at the status of the avante- garde where "literature" is meant! ) as well. While, here, we are trying to re- fresh, reboot, a crucial aesthetic-- "borrowed" from the scientific laws of thermodynamics-- crit, 1960's Counter Culture term, ENTROPY, contradistinct to the preeminence of its "exception", single reversible-reaction paradigm, a HYSTERESIS, if you will, of this "law" as explained previously, to be the underground, independent, cooperatively- determined Letters and Literary Arts on point: the unconditional Conscience of the people and culture. Especially as there are bottom- line issues of free expression, free speech, public access, and distribution of what- is- to- be- accessible at play in the Country ( which would include New York, even Manhattan?). Rough housing is allowed of course especially toward the initiators of the civil Wars here at home.

note:: sub-texte: the word "entropy" happened to be gleaned during my research into affects of one of the three subjects to be roasted in this series of blog-posts, Liam Rector. A brief vacuous essay published in the equally vacant American Poetry Review out of Philadelphia.

Yes! perhaps like yoursell-ves I do take all of this personally.

But my purpose beside the obvious allowance of timelines if not tardiness unlike a few of my more confrontational if not obsessed associates ( in and of the ALLIANCE ) is not one of resentment, nor the despairing anger of wanting, "to have, being a Have- not, what-- the fame, money, the status-- the Haves have", nor even to get published and distributed, especially this late in the game, by duh Conglomerites and supp and sip with the glacial hupsters grind from dusk 'til dawn, but to shame and, if the opportunity present itself, as it is here on this Blog, drive the dominant forces as attached over the edge. For the people, for the reading/writing public, and most poignantly (I do take this personal!) for the Allies, cf. the ALLIANCE [where available; void where prohibited]. Seriously, I am the poet and if I'm lying it's not to bear false witness against my neighbors nor am I even against coveting my neighbor's wife or his daughters for that matter but do so to better advance and promote the causes of the TRUTH.

So that the public I as the poet do serve can cultivate a more critical sense in making actual decisions instead of being limited to the "bipolarism" of mere choices the system forces upon us. So that in effect there is less lying going around, dished out, in other words, the line- fed line of Fantasy Island, as I a poet loud and clear do in turn namely "make - believe", make-believing which exercises the Eternal Organ Of The Imagination and does sustain the citizen of a democratic country well with access to our Collective Uncs. so called, and its attending endless renewable energy and the open range of the lands of peace and ease.

Come to think of it, or more properly, as the Imagination's "woven shade" , the "poets' bower", has been invoked, come to intuit it, this is done and only can be done and is being done by the ULA in particular and it's Presses and the associated zeens, blogs, performances and creative livelihoods of its members and quantitatively more so by the free-association of those independent underground writers, poets, and artists beyond the zone of the Alliance's direct influences.

[ALL PHOTOS ARE GEOFF HALL @ APRIL, 2006]

This is where I the poet of the people, the reading/ writing citizenry, stand, seriously but not soberly, confidently but not necessarily faithfully, full of it never if I can help it full of myself but practically empty, and having no strings to hold me down unlike the three compromised poets who are, by all intents and purposes, (the answer to the question of whose intents and purposes lies in the upper recesses of closed and suffocating Towers one is styled in ivory and the other fashioned of robber-baron booty ) good soldiers, good victims of who they serve, to whom they sold out to, and most grievously, sold out the great art of poetry and the legacy, grounded in the pivotal decades of the '20's & '30's, and the Fifties and Sixties and then as now the "underground" (Fiction and )Poetry of the '90's, the story of which is not yet written nor decided, of that poetry, of those poets, either alive or dead. While I have friends, I take exception to my comrades no matter what their faults being used for ends that kill the messanger and capitalize on her belongings.

FIRST UP LETS TAKE, jason shinder, http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/407

OR MORE CAUTIOUSLY A FEW OF HIS "LATE" POEMS-- AS THEY ARE IN FACT WRIT BY A POET WHO IS LATE RECENTLY IN LIFE'S ESTIMATION TAKEN FROM US --WHICH I REGRET TO SAY WILL NOT APPEAR HERE IN THEIR ENTIRETY AS THE EXCUSE OF COPYWRIT WILL NO DOUBT BE INCITED FROM THE QUARTERS DRAWN AROUND HIS BODY OF WORK AND AROUND HIS VERily BODY FALLEN OUT OF SQUARE WITH our VISIBLE WORLD. BUT BECAUSE ...

note:: subtexte: In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni. [just in case!]

... OF THIS STATE OF THINGS THE READER WILL FIND THE LINES, STANZAS (OR "STROPHES" AS SAPPHIC SOPHISTS HIPSTERS-WHO-ARE-REALLY-GEEKS CALL 'EM) BY LINKS TO THE WHOLE PIECE UNDER THE GUN, SO TO SPEAK. AS I WILL parley MY OWN LYRICK VERSE, TOE TO TOE (tho I'd be ipso facto the one left standing!) with that of HIS selected , and that THAT I DIVINE TO BE APPROPRIATE AS WELL AS PERSONAL ENOUGH TO BE TAKEN DEAD-SERIOUS by enemies.

JUXTAPOSED.

2001, "The One Secret That Has Carried"

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15957

P:: S: I actually wrote a poem after I read Shinder’s , “The One Secret…”, but I will save it and publish as a comment to this post should the response to my “answering” poem below warrant such.

from A Century Of Sonnets Without Borders

#103

She said she thought the drummer

who pilots a SEPTA trolley now and back

in the ‘80’s raped a dominatrix

according to the dominatrix but at least

not the same one, jerks off while he talks

to her on the phone, you got to be

joking I said into my phone,

not the same phone, but I’d hope

he swabs the receiver down

with alcohol if it’s a public pay phone.

It’s not serious, it’s only a commercial

a movie sequel, a stuffed dodo, a nervous

tick not brought on by sanctions until now

against arab kids for over eleven years.

12.31.03

"Star Spangled Poet III"

I wanna, I wanna
wanna be
I wanna wanna be
be-boppin hit the drummin'
hands hittin table
be-boppin eyes closed
sweatin' be
cool
be
syncopated, baby
be, be, be,
wannabe
just-a, just-a, just-a,
just-as, just-ass,
just-ask
justice! justice! justice!
If you don't know this is the shit,
if you don't think this is radical then you
don't know the audience, the rules
the roles you and me supposed to play
Like, I get to be the poet
and you get to be impressed.
Shut out the lights, Nathan,
This gig is over,
entertainment finished,
wasn't it wonderful?
Not really, but it was adequate facsimile
of what used-ta,
used-ta, used-ta,
used to be cool
used to be beautiful
be known as,
and once really was,
poetry.

Mayu Day -- lest we forget, why, how, who and world-wide

MICHAEL GROVER /THIRD IN A SERIES IS OF 3/

AND BY KNOW MEANS HIS FIRST

Fidel

Fidel walking way
Not as a champion,
Not as a martyr,
As an old man
Beaten down
From fighting for years
american imperialism,
The yankee embargos
starving his people.

Here lays proof
Revolution can happen
Power taken
From the point of a gun.

Here lays proof
Power corrupts,
And absolute power
corrupts absolutely.

Here laid shelter
For displaced Poets
Of south america
For american exiles
Like Assata.

Who knows
What the future holds.
I just hope that yankee bastard
Uncle Sam
Don't get his hands around it's throat
And squeeze it for all it's worth.
Commercializing
Everything in sight.

Let's hope the fence of Guantanimo
Does not stretch around the island
Making it all
A prison.

Ninety miles away
From my florida homeland.
Ninety miles of blue ocean.
I have never seen it.
My friends that returned said
It is an island of prostitution and corruption.
To that I say
We're not that different.

I hear that great
Blueblooded king
Talking about wanting fair elections
When do we get ours George?

the 2nd poem and couldn't be more timely.......

still from, "The Day The Earth Stood Still"

Here's a new one I just wrote. Hope you're well.-Michael

ps. What did you think of those books? [3 well tempered chap-books published and available from Mickey G's newly established CovertPress] Dorsey [rad poet/activist of Toledo, Ohio ] said he'd be down with doing a reading. Anyhow the poem:

Free Speech

Free speech is . . .
Free speech is . .
Speech is free .

As long as you
Pay for what
You say later.
And the mans got
His thugs collecting.

Free verse is . . .
Free verse is . .
Verse is free .

Words torn from the source.
Onto the page,
Flowin' every which way.
She told me she'd
Like to be a Poet,
But she can't write
In all that rhyme.
She's a Poet
And she never knew it.

Slow food for thought,
Simmering in the brain.
It's free speech,

And it's free.

march 3, 2008

TrueNews 3 Poems From Mike Grover

Cause & Effect, Citizen 32, Alphabeat Soup, The San Gabriel Poetry Quarterly, Mad
Poets Review, Philadelphia Poets and the anthologies One Drop: To Be The Color Black,
West Memphis Witchhunt, and My Time: The Lunch Break Book and online including
http://www.saintvituspress.com/, http://www.outsiderwriters.org/, http://www.getunderground.com/,
http://www.dyingwriters.com/, DecomP Literary Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee,
Redfez.net, Whirlygig Zine, and Beat The Dust. Michael is now back in Florida from there he hosts the website

http://www.covertpoetics.com/, co-edits CP Journal, and hosts a reading at Exodus Coffee & Culture in Port Saint Lucie.

His newest chapbook is titled "The Man That Lives In The Park".

here's the first of his three featured followed by two more

A New american Anthem

I wont stand for this modern society,
This modern technology,
That reduces prophets to profits,
To prostitutes
Pimping their own eggshell egos,
To promotional whores,
To networkers,
To favor dealers,
To rockstar images in a their space photo,
To not what but who you know.

A New american Anthem

I wont stand for this modern society,
This modern technology,
That reduces prophets to profits,
To prostitutes
Pimping their own eggshell egos,
To promotional whores,
To networkers,
To favor dealers,
To rockstar images in a their space photo,
To not what but who you know.

Maybe I'm an old dog,
That learned the old way,
Cut my teeth in LA
With the greatest minds of a new beat generation.
I can still learn new tricks
With the pen on the page,
I refuse to give into the reptilian brain.
Cold and insensitive
As a marketing mind.

This is my last stand,
My line drawn in the sand.
My last chance to go out with a roar
Over a pussy cat purr.

This is a transmission,
If you should choose to receive it.
Read it loud from a street corner.
From a dingy working class bar.
Set Poetry free!
This is my last shred of dignity.
All or nothing.

I am writing a new american anthem.
I can't stand for the rockets red glare anymore.
No bombs bursting in air.
This will be a song for Peace.
This will mean freedom, justice, equality, Peace
And any other word this countries supposed to mean.
I want an anthem,
A country we can be proud of again.
Not the pride that was forced upon us.
Not the prostitute war for profit,
Everything for profit that we have become.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Nothing cold, generic, and corporate sponsored.
No reptilian mind tricks.
Written in blood, sweat, feeling, and soul.

I am writing a new american anthem.
If you can see it, hear it, or read it.
If you identify with it in any way.
I urge you to go and write your own.
Write it in your blood and sweat.
Write it with the intention of a bullet in the chamber.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Because voting is just another useless word,
Made to look significant
If you are told who you may vote for.
And the deck is stacked anyway.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Because we can laugh at cartoons we pay to see
Taking pot shots at the president.
While he's laughing all the way to the world bank.
And you tell me who's playing the fool.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Out of necessity.
Out of preservation.
Because these days
Hope and Poems
Are all that keeps me going.

m.d.g. 4/11/08

Maybe I'm an old dog,
That learned the old way,
Cut my teeth in LA
With the greatest minds of a new beat generation.
I can still learn new tricks
With the pen on the page,
I refuse to give into the reptilian brain.
Cold and insensitive
As a marketing mind.

This is my last stand,
My line drawn in the sand.
My last chance to go out with a roar
Over a pussy cat purr.

This is a transmission,
If you should choose to receive it.
Read it loud from a street corner.
From a dingy working class bar.
Set Poetry free!
This is my last shred of dignity.
All or nothing.

I am writing a new american anthem.
I can't stand for the rockets red glare anymore.
No bombs bursting in air.
This will be a song for Peace.
This will mean freedom, justice, equality, Peace
And any other word this countries supposed to mean.
I want an anthem,
A country we can be proud of again.
Not the pride that was forced upon us.
Not the prostitute war for profit,
Everything for profit that we have become.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Nothing cold, generic, and corporate sponsored.
No reptilian mind tricks.
Written in blood, sweat, feeling, and soul.

I am writing a new american anthem.
If you can see it, hear it, or read it.
If you identify with it in any way.
I urge you to go and write your own.
Write it in your blood and sweat.
Write it with the intention of a bullet in the chamber.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Because voting is just another useless word,
Made to look significant
If you are told who you may vote for.
And the deck is stacked anyway.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Because we can laugh at cartoons we pay to see
Taking pot shots at the president.
While he's laughing all the way to the world bank.
And you tell me who's playing the fool.

I am writing a new american anthem.
Out of necessity.
Out of preservation.
Because these days
Hope and Poems
Are all that keeps me going.

m.d.g. 4/11/08

Two more as we drift closer to MAY DAY and tensions rise!

Ulf Stefan Lingonblad, a poetry piece

[STEFAN is a native of Sweden who works

two full- time jobs in the Jacksonville Beaches

area of North Florida. He is primarily a novelist

currently at work on his second novel.

Stafan is also an active member

of the North Florida Chapter

of the Florida Writers' Association.

Here is a brief introduction in his own words:]

"Anyhow, I don’t really have much of anything that would be a great fit for the ULA. The stuff I write belongs more in the (hated) mainstream press. But so far no-one has wanted to publish any of it, so what the hey!



I am sending you what is probably the one and only short poetry piece I have that could be a fit (you be the judge).




The bio would be something like:
Stefan – the Swedish Viking, Raider of prose, Rapist of poetry!
My hometown is Strängnäs…. " [out side of Stockholm]

"Fight to Awaken – Fight to See!”



Their Fog-machines put out an impenetrable haze

which shrouds you in

confusion.


Your thoughts, like petals

off a withering

Rose, shrivel and fall to the ground.


Don’t be afraid to pick them back up,

even though they may have gotten

dirty.

Chew on them, digest them,

regurgitate

them, then spit them out

into the faces of those who walk

in the fog

together with you.

Those who don't

flinch

or react in any way –

forget about them, they are without

hope.

But to the others – those who clench their

fists

to strike back at you – shout to them loudly:

“Fight to awaken – Fight to See!”




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Andrew Lovatt, editor and publisher, Dublin Ireland

to hear the original music, "9_volt_rhythm" composed by A.L. integral to fully experience this piece go to the main ULA website:

http://www.literaryrevolution.com/multimedia.html

caught between extremes

n o t e s o n m u s i c

by andrew lovatt

a rock & a hard place

a good time, a bad time

black & white

hope & despair

rising & falling

we learn to walk

between the poles

in the sun, under the rain

swallowed by the moment

or a seeming plan to suit

the ever-changing circumstances

we are caught

between the extremes. we live in a world where we lie to ourselves about this. pretend that the experience of being alive is somehow containable, can be rationalized and given place and time. always-contemporary-life achieves this for a spell, until we get too old to take part or take it seriously. and that end time, our disappearance, we ignore by every deviation possible. THAT has never been contained, and we know it.

being born between extremes, everyone is bent, dented, twisted or somehow imperfect. we only have to look around and at ourselves. so why split hairs about who's brand of twist is more kosher or rational-seeming. faggot, nigger, a-rab, chink, dyke, kyke, paddy, wop. so what? the current powers of common life will always sell their own brand of reason to go with the process. that's a given.

learning to be one with life requires seeing how we are born into it. how being ensnared in the great-contemporary-nowness, the get with it time, pro-duce & pro-fit & pro-gress or be dead, is diverting us into a passionate belief of something partial, a sliver of the everything and whole. we lose sight of the simple. the binary chemicalized pro-cess of this life now has a volition and purpose of its own. we are all servants to it. we serve who come and go and know not that we have really been here.

being cast into an existence between the extremes, we are made into binary creatures adapted to the vagaries: this is the hypno pulse that grips us. on and off and on and off and on. we see and we are blind. we hear and are deaf.

this is what we have come to

a sitting down with ourselves

stopping for a moment

in-be-tween the notes

of the living, living through us

t r a c k n o t e s

bliss bus : sometimes the speed of the music in us transports towards a bliss

desert rumble : the echo speaks of something unspoken but yearned for

desert river : winds its way through us, pretending to be a landscape

solo piano 2 : a triumphal wish to be upright

onward : sometimes we are smashed into smithereens by life. a million fragments. to never return to the same. we die to was. are naked before the is-ness. just for a little while. all options & equivocations gone. we are frighteningly free of all we leaned upon. and then there is the moving onward.

undulate 1 : the binary wave hides itself and reappears, taking us with it on an unknown journey

joy & sorrow : in youth we chase joy with such naivety, unawares it will pay us with the experience of sorrow too. were we not so foolish we would never learn. there is a wisdom in the process.

prayer 1 : leaning sometimes to yearning, brings us to wishing. prayers are revealed out of our confusion, never in our complacency. squeezed out of us, expressed through us.

pergatorio dolce : even the sweetest intoxicant has its sobrietous reminders, the pangs and pains showing in the fevered happiness. the dancing to fast tunes, faces painted with the edge of anguish. fake joy. ersatz. our jaundiced eye in the midst of plenty. unbelieving is our purgatory. or we are awoken to our dumb play.

[newbridge : 13.xi.04 rev 09.iv.07]

copyright © andrew lovatt, all rights reserved

email: info@andrewlovatt.com and for "the best independent alternative literary e-zeen on the internet":

http://www.deaddrunkdublin.com/