The Joint is Hoppin - Review by philipGtaylor

The Joint on Myrtle Ave

13may’15

The evening at the joint was an intimate one— at its largest, the gathering numbered eight people. Wine and beer flowed from the Joint’s bar, and tacos made with fresh ingredients from the farmer’s market were served. The Joint's owner Tanya sat down in the diner seating area with us poets and musicians after service was done, encouraging us to read and perform with a bright and pure enthusiasm that was enlivening.

​The lights were dimmed, the front door closed, and the cat let out of the basement; the performance had begun.

​Jessie Branch was the first to take the stage, bringing her guitar with her and performing two original songs. Jessie Branch is an incredible singer and songwriter, and her music is disarmingly beautiful. She has an unexpectedly wide range of vocal ability, and she poured her soul into every piece of her music. Without a doubt, Jessie Branch will be a name you will hear in the context of great performing musicians before the decade is done.

​After such an incredible performance, I washesitant to perform, but as all of our poet friends had not yet arrived, I decided to pass the time with a couple of original songs. I borrowed Jessie’s guitar, and once I made it to the stage, I played with the enthusiasm of a born stage-performer, if not the skill of one.

​Jessie Branch returned to the stage with a poem inspired by the Alice Notley reading at the Poetry Project on April 15th. I have known Jessie as a poet and friend for almost a year now, and have read most of her new work since meeting her; this piece was the greatest of them all. It was full of passionate discovery, confusion, and heart-chafing, unflinching honesty. I was brought to tears by the power of her reading, and informed her afterward that it would be a disservice to herself and to the poetic community if she does not continue to write with the same intensity and honesty as she did with that piece. We all had to take a short break where everyone gathered themselves after such a powerfully explosive reading.

​Riley San Nicholas was the next to get on stage, toting his acoustic guitar. Riley is an incredible instrumentalist, far and away the best of the evening, and accompanied his 4 original songs with vocals resembling the best of British Rock and Roll from the 60’s and 70’s. Tanya expressed her amazement at the talent gathered together that night, and Riley was an excellent example of the young and talented group of friends performing for each other that evening.

​Next up was Sean Contris, who after excessive urging from the rest of us, performed a few jokes from the standup comedy routine he had been developing in comedy clubs during his time in New York. He lounged across the coffee bar with the relaxed air of a regular performer, and made us all laugh with his stories. Without giving too much away, all I will say is that I never thought that a story about a pear wearing glasses could be so damn funny.

​I returned to the impromptu stage and read several pieces from my forthcoming book, CURB YOUR DOG. I selected a handful of pieces that dealt primarily with the New York Subway and the signs one finds there, holding conversation with them and their implied meanings. The pieces were much moreenthusiastically received than I had expected.

​Speaking of unexpected, Masha T. Jennings was next, reading a few pieces of poetry with the aplomb and flare of a natural performer. Although often reserved in their speech, Masha delivered these works with energy and gusto, and for a few minutes I was completely enthralled by the playful dealings with gender and social archetypes. Of course, the Russian revolution was mentioned, which Masha describes as “the founding act of my self.”

​Last, but certainly not least, AlisonCuthbertson read three poems to the small but rowdy audience. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this was actually the first time Alison had read any of her work in a performance setting. I was certainly fooled; Alison’s readings were confident and capable, and the first two pieces were filled with eerie beauty and magic. Her final piece, about Strawberry Jelly, was a surreal interaction with the subject matter that left one delightfully disturbed.

​All in all, this was an incredible evening of poetry and music shared by new and grand friends, full laughter, conversation, and uproarious applause. My only disappointment of the evening was knowing that we would not be able to repeat the event at The Joint on Myrtle again, as our time in New York was drawing to a close. I can only hope that we will all gather again in Olympia to have a similar evening of wonderful performance and friendship.

Firebombed with Words - Review by philipGtaylor

St. Mark’s Poetry Project

11may’15

“Monday night at St. Mark’s is where it’s at.” ---HollyMelgard, editor of Troll Thread

I couldn’t have said it better myself. Monday night at the Poetry Project is a gathering of the younger generation of poets, one that has the atmosphere of a gathering of friends showing off their new work; unlike the stiff formality of the Wednesday night Poetry Project readings, the Monday night gathering hosted in the smaller back room of St. Marks, and is booze friendly and laughter-encouraging.

​There were two poets to read that night, and the first poet to take the stage absolutely stole the show; SteveZultanski blew the audience away with an extended firebombing of a reading that he delivered in a high-octane monotone that left the room breathless. His first poem dealt with the guilt of white males, and the assertion that government leaders are responsible for the actions of those they govern. This was detailed in surreal scenes where Obama was the perpetrator in a variety of violent and disturbing crimes, which shocked the audience into laughter at the ridiculous and frightening nature of the assertions. So many intensely disturbing scenes were detailed, and Zultanski made the incredibly insightful statement “I don’t remember not doing it”, so maybe he was in fact guilty of these many crimes. Zultanski kept pace with his readings by dance-stepping his way back and forth, maintaining a rhythm that wove his jet-fueled images together.

​After Zultanski read, there was an extended cigarette break in the courtyard where the poets gathered and discussed many things, including the hours of the liquor store across the street and the difficulty of reading poetry at weddings. Soon the break was over and we returned to hear the next poet.

​Donato Mancini read from his piece Introspective Data, which centered around unanswered questions. One of the first questions asked was “do you like beautiful poetry?” and I felt the question was directed at me. Mancini read as a poet who knows they are reading beautiful poetry: his hands followed the paced rhythm of his words, and he self-consciously looked up only when a member of the audience would leave the room. Laughter was contained, and it was obvious that this was his first reading in this group of young poets. His questions were many, and encompassed everything from the material of heavenly trumpets to the vegan status of bananas harvested with slave labor. Although the lines connected by association from one question to the next, there was little overarching theme aside from self and social introspection. In all honesty, it was a delightful and insightful reading, but I felt it had a difficult time competing with the intense fervor ofZultanski’s work.

The Strand

Bookstore located at 828 Broadway NYC, NY
Review written and edited by Peter Buller

Walking into The Strand feels similar to walking into Powell's Books in Portland; immediately one is surrounded by books and their lovers. Shelves lined with volumes of various shapes and sizes tower over customers as they peruse The Strand's impressive collection. The scent of old texts and dusty tomes lingers in the air, especially so in the basement floor, where some sections of books resemble forgotten alleyways. Although often compared to its bigger cousin--Powell's Books, the world's largest independent bookstore--The Strand maintains its own status as the definitive independent bookstore of New York.

Used books on sale for tantalizing prices entice customers inside, while newer titles help keep them there. Indeed, it is difficult to leave once inside, for The Strand displays many works on distinct, artistic covers. A beautiful hardcover copy of Brandon Stanton's Humans of New York particularly stood out, its colourful collage of photographs replicating those found within. However, if indeed one should not judge books by their covers, The Strand has some explaining to do. Most of its works on display are popular titles and best-sellers. Ghost-written biographies, the latest and greatest thrillers, and young-adult fiction populate the main book stacks; yet the decision strikes more of desires for financial success than proliferating books of every kind. Nothing could have proved this more than The Strand's disparity of used books. Powell's nestles its used works with newer ones as a beneficial gesture to customers. While seeking out Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse and Herman Melville's Moby Dick, I encountered several editions at varying prices--some affordable, others not as much; yet the prices accorded to the peculiarities of each edition. Older hardcover cost more than worn reprints. To contrast, used books in The Strand are of a quality that matches their new counterparts to the extent that they bear the same price. All the copies of To the Lighthouse and Moby Dick were the same edition. Although the quality and price of used books in The Strand is almost irresistible, the universality on its shelves says nothing positive about its intentions.

Perhaps more concerning is The Strand's poor dedication to independent publishers. A search on its online catalog excited me with four pages of Archipelago books; yet the only book of theirs to be found was the fourth volume of Karl Ove Knausgaard's My Struggle. Coming across New Directions editions in their store was similarly difficult. Roberto Bolaño's Between Parentheses was among the few ND books in The Strand's main stacks, most of them tucked away in the back section. Other independent publishers like Coffee House Press possess few titles amidst the works of commercial publishers which occupy most of The Strand's shelf space. Compared to the several corridors of massive shelves in Powell's, or the pleasing section dedicated to independent publishers in Community Bookstore, The Strand's lesser dedication to poetry and fiction feels grievous. Its section of kitsch souvenirs takes more space than its few shelves of poetry. Staff recommendations feel less compassionate than those of Powell's, which speckled every section of the bookstore with detailed praise for elevated titles. The Strand offers this treatment only to popular, established works; yet what pours salt in this wound was a snide remark on Martin Heidegger's Being and Time, "that if you had more than one life you would certainly also read [this book] but unfortunately your days are numbered." Though it admittedly garners attention, tongue-in-cheek judgments of other's literary tastes should never occur in a bookstore, of all places.

Nevertheless, The Strand piques one's bookish interests once inside. NYC's biggest bookstore should appeal to any lover of books, and intrigues customers to seek out more obscure independent bookstores. One wonders if this is due to a shared passion for books or a response to financial troubles; though the former is more likely, it will take time until The Strand matches the prowess of Portland's City of Books.

Mutant Radio Poetry Night -Review by Alison Cuthbertson

When I returned to Olympia, Washington, from New York my mind questioned what I would do with myself. Although to my surprise there were three events happening Sunday night which is not common here. There was a Roller Derby bout happening on the eastside at a character filled roller rink called Skateland, a punk show at Le Voyeur, and a poetry reading at the New Moon Café. Two of these events cost money which is something I do not have at this time, so I chose the poetry read. It was an easy choice anyway.
I moseyed over to the downtown area in my car through the forest brimming with life and everything flowered and green. I even saw three deer before leaving my house. When I got close I parked about a block away. I knew a band would also be at this reading but I assumed something clean and sweeter, but what they had was an undecipherable concoction of metal drumming, a wining guitar and megaphone vocals that were really just words being yelled over it all or screaming. I could hear this before even leaving my car. What more could I expect from Olympia? As I approached the door of the café I saw some familiar faces and the band started to settle down. This musical guest was called DEFACEMAN with main sing Alice Wynne, also the hostess of this event.
When the blaring ended a reader took the stage. I believe his name was Shane Yee. He seemed very straight-laced and no nonsense, with his Budweiser t-shirt tucked into his denim jeans with hair brush and parted. He read four poems some of which were very composed and carefully read while one other was faster more repetitive and meant to help you understand what being “high on weed and coffee” felt like. DEFACEMAN immediately picks it up after him with a thirty second or less song. During this time I took a better look around. Oh yes this is Olympia! All I could see was dirty half bleached hair, jean jackets with patches, studded vests, backwards hats, retro glasses, stick and poke tattoos, Billy Corgan look-alikes, vintage dresses, torn shirts, Doc Marten boots of all kinds, and black and red lipstick. Also, do not forget the smell of an unwashed Greener; this was prominent, along with cigarette smoke blowing through the doorway.
Another reader came up who I think was named Melissa. She wasn’t listed as a featured reader and Melissa was her only introduction. She read a poem in a slam style about a hospital called McClean and another one about zodiac signs and how they are astrologically racist. The band played a song for an absent Adam Barnes, and a third reader was up next. These next two readers never had introductions but they were either Sarah Bradley or Shannen Hansen. One of these girls made a reference to Xanadu; she had been listening to it and contemplated on her life. She had posted the song on a social network and read the comments she received while playing the song aloud. Another song was played very quickly and the last reader sat on the stool with many paper and about three notebooks. She read from each piece she held, some things being funny and others very serious. She read one poem that was a collaborative effort with her friend while on a road trip. These poets are at the same level or standing in life as I am and if these people had books published I would have bought them.




The reading ended with one more song and everyone slowly dispersed. As I was leaving, Alice announced that if anyone wanted to read at the next even all you had to do was tell her. Maybe after some time I’ll have enough or the right material to read at one of these Mutant Radio Poetry events.

The Joint - Review by Alison Cuthbertson

It was a perfect evening for simple fun being in the company friends and classmates to share our music and poems. None of us had done anything like this In New York as a class yet, except for reading a review or two at Poet’s House over the weeks. After abruptly waking up from a nap I ran to the 6 train to meet up with Renata Lozito before venturing off to lovely Brooklyn. I was excited to get the chance to read but it also made me very nervous. I was more so anxiously awaiting to hear others perform their own stuff.
Renata and I grabbed the C and after, the G making our way to a quaint little café called The Joint. A fitting name for Evergreen student. This place is run by a very upbeat and energetic woman named Tonya and she loves hosting events in her café. Walking up to the joint we met with rest of those attending which includes Masha Jennings, Jessie Branch, Phil Taylor, and a friend of Renata’s named John. After we all connived inside we enjoyed the amazing food served in the café and the drinks. The Joint serves the best and biggest mugs of coffee which just so happens to be from Washington State. Our group took their time getting to the reading and just socialized with each other. Once we got started it was electric and serene. Jessie Branch went first and played her guitar. The room became very quiet and all eyes were on her. Branch is such a song bird! She sang two songs one being more sad, but her voice still warmed the heart. Phil jumped up after Jessie finished and started reading his poems created from bombarding signs he had seen all over the city. It was really incredible what he came up with just using the signs as prompts for making poetry. Phil Taylor also played a few of his songs as well, which reminded me of Olympia life and being back in the wood.
After a short while Riley San Nicolas and Sarah Gluck arrived and Riley played his set of four songs which always give off an old school rock and roll feeling. Sean Contris appeared during the music from a reading at the Dia in Chelsea. When Riley ended his turn we all took a break to hang out with each other more. Tonya was so excited to have us there, she talked with each of us about what we do and where we’re from with such enthusiasm. She cheered and begged us to continue. So Sean threw his hands up and we were ready for a story. He comically told us about a time he agreed to give a meth head woman a ride. Up next was Masha Jennings. Masha’s poetry explores or rather takes you through their own perspective of queerness and political views. Masha’s words were very empowering and surprising; I felt as though I had nothing in comparison to read after. When it was my turn to read my voice shook at first but I remembered I was among friends and it wasn’t so bad.
Not much happened after I read. Jessie Branch played another song. Really we all hung out and eventually dispersed, though some of us went to nearby park to play more music together. It was a perfect way to end the night.

Review of Piano+String Quartet at Williamsburg Airspace by Jessie Branch

Pianist+String Quartet at Williamsburg Airspace

By Jessie Branch 

            I was wandering through the streets of Williamsburg in search of entertainment. One street seemed particularly lively, and upon inquiring what the fuss was about, I found a large warehouse full of young people listening to music. The garage door was open but a fence was in place keeping street-people outside. People crowded, faces pressed against the fence, enamored with what was happening inside. Naturally, I decided to go in.

            Inside this warehouse, called the "Williamsburg Airspace", a piano and string quartet were playing Chopin. The performers were young, probably college students, and were playing on wooden pallets to an audience of a few hundred other college-aged individuals, many of whom were sprawled out on the floor, barefoot. It was truly a sight to behold. 

            The audience lined rafters along the back of the room and sat in awe listening to the masterful craftsmanship of the musicians. The pianist played so hard he began to sweat, and seemed to be twirling out of control emotionally with the music. The violinists moved with each stroke of their violin and reminded me of guitarists I have seen at rock concerts, flailing and allowing the music to visibly flow through them.

            The thing that struck me the most about this airspace and the people inside was the juxtaposition between the informality of the setting and the complexity of the concerto. It seemed that these people could be people who worked in coffee shops, they could be students or artists, but the fact that so many of them were clearly captivated by classical music and chose to spend their Saturday night in a warehouse listening to Chopin played by their peers was marvelous.

            

Stephen Motika and Joanne Kyger Reading

Reading held at Dia: Chelsea and curated by Vincent Katz, May 12, 2015
Review written and edited by Peter Buller

Mood rarely factors into one's poetic canon. Poetry focusing on particular moods in one's life receives the scintillating stamp of confessionalism in literary circles or brings to mind the poor, angsty writings of a teenager. As a result, poets explored other themes in their writing, leaving the intricacies of mood to musicians, painters, and other artists. Mood in poetry frequently supports the thematic goals of writers or particular works. Rarely do writers utilize mood as their poetic centrifuge, a sentiment which lends itself to the works of Stephen Motika and Joanne Kyger.

Author and poet Vincent Katz describes Stephen Motika's work as employing an, "activism of syllables, sounds, and images." Reading mostly from Western Practice (Alice James Books 2012), his first book of poems, Motika forms a collage of moods through formalist play and referential images. His reading of "City Set: Los Angeles Years" interweaves Gertrude Stein's recurrent word choice with Frank O'Hara's penchant for names. He's "walking along a dry California riverbed" after an arrival "at Womanhouse in search of Group Operation," later noting, "stolen:/ B. Nauman: Perfect Door/Perfect Odor: Perfect Rodo." Nestled between these are meditations on "flexible reality" and "a syrup of scientific." What makes Motika's imagery so striking is its chronological context: the mood of L. A. during 1972. On this note, Motika concocts an intriguing mixture of sculpted images and chiseled sounds, which he renders beautifully in his elegant reading. Embodying the mood of a time and place allowed his reading to match the beautiful arrangement of his written words in casual strides.

Joanne Kyger's reading from her latest work, On Time (City Lights Publishers 2015) also flowed with casual confidence. In Kyger's case, the tone of her voice helped set the mood of her poetry. Musings on "the best thing about the past" and George Bush "walking... with a watermelon under each arm" rest within the emotional landscape of conversations on a homey front porch--which at one point serves as the setting of a poem of hers. Humour grounds Kyger's poems in this mood, a "vampire squid" referring to Goldman-Sachs and recounting the colours of rare gemstones as "an opportunity for a good education." On Time itself jabs at the tardiness implied in Bill Berkson's Expect Delays (Coffee House Press 2014). Kyger's poetry could easily stand on humour alone; yet pays attention to the profound as well. Meditations on mind and body--grounded in the spiritual pursuits of Eastern religions--flow in and out of humorous storytelling. An amusing quip on preferring the word mature "when referring to myself" trickles into thoughts on how "the old gods reach out with their stories and resentments." Kyger illuminates the fluctuating mood of friendly conversations in a poetics where "water becomes a state of being."

Although Kyger and Motika possess different backgrounds and interact with different people, their poetry nevertheless attest to the emotional landscape mood provides. Through images of Motika's "ball of red and orange and smoke," and Kyger's "riding on a wave of understanding... out of sight," a spectrum of emotions outlines the previously unplaced texture of life's moody roads.

The New York Philharmonic Rendition of Schuberts Unfinished Symphony - Review by Andrew Davis

The New York Philharmonic Orchestra's rendition of Schubert's Unfinished Symphony was unbelievable. I have heard the work before, but never live and in person. The Enormity of the venue at Lincoln Center is almost overlooked by those who have the good fortune to be seated near the front to the stage. When I entered I was struck with the need to gaze not only at the golden stage in the distance, but up at the tremendous height of the ceiling, much like entering a large cathedral where although the sermon is taking place at the front of the room, it is important to realise that what is happening is much more important for it attempts to transcend and look towards the eternal. And although Schubert's piece wasn't intended to be religious, I was absolutely enraptured.  

The biggest difference between hearing a piece of music on a speaker or headphones vs a live performance is that their is something to look at. The recording only hints at the human element that produced the work, however the Live performance constantly reminds the listener that this piece of music is human. And perhaps the most important element in order to  humanise  an orchestra is the conductor. In this case, the conductor surely did an excellent job at humanising with his lively hand gestures that emulated everything from flowing water, to a fighter who was throwing some practice jabs at his opponent. This is not to discredit the humanity of the performers who were as lively as ever. But every once and a while the orchestra verges on reenacting a robot factory, especially the violins who's longbows synchronicity is reminiscent of some mechanical motion in a large factory.

As for the piece itself, it goes without saying that it is a stupendous work of art that surely falls under the timeless category. I am only disatisfied with the title. Perhaps it is too silly to think about renaming a work that is as iconic as this, but one still wonders if it is worth keeping the awkward title. It also brings up the question of the ability for a piece of work to be unfinished at all. Maybe a work of art is never unfinished, and that in each moment of time that it is being created it is finished in that moment. I would much rather have the title of the piece be Schubert's Symphony so that it may keep most of the title without distracting from the work.

After this religious experience, I am much more likely to become a devote follower of live classical music. 

Book binding at UDP - Review by Alison Cuthbertson

It was quite a trek getting out to The Ugly Duckling Presse that day. Taking the 6, to the S, to the R, which never showed up and instead taking the N, and then the R again, was all just so unnecessary. It took two hours to get there and a rat hit my shoe almost running up my leg when I get out of the subway. Though insane, the journey was well worth it to bind some books at one of the coolest publishing houses in Brooklyn. I had never known that publishing houses had volunteer days. This was so exciting to me! I could show up and help bind books for hours. There is no better way to spend a Saturday! Being someone that is personally very interested in book binding and the “ART of the book”, this was great practice, and I also learned some new techniques to use on my own.  



When I finally got there, up the stairs, and into the room, Tallulah Pomeroy immediately showed me the way they wanted the books sewn together and left me to continue on. It was nice to see some classmates that also participated, such as Phil Taylor, Tomm McCarthy, and Rachel Carlson. All the chapbooks were so beautiful and perfect. Creating a book is such a delicate and wonderful process and at the end you feel so accomplished. Ruby Kapka showed us all the steps that go into making books. The paper needs to be neatly folded and pressed down with a bone piece. These folded papers are “the guts” which are placed in the cover and are center for the holes to be made in the spine. We used a sharp tool with a handle and a guide for where the holes should be made so that they are uniform. When binding, we used small lovely threads, some of which were waxed. Depending on the string the wax coating makes it easier to work with and can make tighter knots to better keep books together. It is pretty easy to do but there are much more complicated ways to make books, but we stuck with the beginner stuff. I thoroughly enjoyed myself there creating all day, so much so I probably could have stayed longer but by 5 everyone was ready to close up shop. Not if, but when I return to New York I will most definitely go back to Ugly Duckling Presse to volunteer or maybe even intern there. A truly wonderful experience indeed!  

Bernadette Mayer -Review by Alison Cuthbertson

Although I had been slightly late the reading at the St Marks Church had not even started yet. There were so many people gathered for the celebration of Bernadette Mayer’s poetry. This was a very special event for us poetry kids given that Mayer is associated with the New York School of Poet, which makes her an important person within the community to study and know her works. The book that was read this evening was Eating the Colors of a Lineup of Words witch is a collection of Mayer’s poetry and is one out of several books from over the years.
Surprisingly there were many people reading Mayer’s poetry and not just her. After an introduction of the work a man named Michael Ruby took the stage and began the reading of a poem “Untitled”. As the night went on I was not able to catch all the names of the participants or the poems but some beautiful lines that I felt much taken by, such as “to grace every place with flowers… But for the grace of winds.” Another “Untitled Street Works” made me laugh from all the crazy things to do around the city like “confuse people in doorways for eight hours,” or “throw garbage cans away.”
The most memorable reader for me that night was Ann Waldman. The way in which she read demanded my attention. She sucked me in, making me unable to look away and every word was powerful. She had read a poem called “Eve of Easter” which is about the children of well know novelists and how Mayer is helping take care of them while at another person’s house. The connections between writers and poets is fascinating in a similar way to how musicians are also connected.
One other reader was Peter Gizzi, who is a familiar face from the reading at the Dia in Chelsea. AS I had mentioned in a past review of him, he had this casual and cool air about him. This attitude remain ever prevalent. He made Mayer’s work his own as did Waldman. He had made a comment on Mayer before he began reading and said that Bernadette Mayer has a “fierce heart in a broken world.” There were many striking lines in the poems he chose like “don’t be afraid of your own heart beating,” and “the man sewed his soles back to his feet.”
Unfortunatly I did not have any cash on me at the reading to purchase a book that night. This reading was very beautiful and Mayer’s words captivated me. I will be buying a few of Mayer’s books in the future.

Mark Maron Interview -Review by Tomm McCarthy

This Tuesday, in AOL headquarters, Manhattan, New York City, Marc Maron decided to talk to people. Maron, a comedian made famous for his podcast WTF?, has been a growing success around America. He is known for his openness and brutal honesty, but he also has a streak of sentimentalism that is oddly charming.

But back to Tuesday; back to AOL headquarters in Manhattan. What was going on there?

The room was strange, because it wasn’t really a room. Really it was just the most cinematic corner of the office. The stage was low, lit by little lights producing big colours and bright, but cool spots on the stage. The seating was thrown together, comprised of folding chairs. When one row filled, more chairs were added to that row so it could seat more in maybe less idyllic positions. There were cameras also: about five and they scanned the room to pick up b-roll or got different angles of body doubles who sat where Moran and his interviewer were going to be seated so lighting could be established. And so angles could be marked out. So everything went smooth.

When Maron took this stage, with moderator Paul Ulane, there was a relaxed formality to his entrance. Maron bickered with his moderator over which chair was his. He was chewing gum and instantly realized that he needed to spit it out. And his opening jokes began when the moderator asked him if we was enjoying this good part of his career.

“Well I don’t know how you would define enjoy,” he said, “I can generally afford to eat wherever I want. Which is nice. Uh, I walked around the other day. That was pleasant. I figured out how to compulsively use Instagram yesterday, and here I thought I was doing some arty sort of exposition of New York, and when I ran into people that follow me they said, ‘You alright?’ and I’m like ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You seem a little manic with the pictures.’ So yeah I was having fun, but apparently it was misunderstood.”

The interview continued in this vein, which at first seemed very rehearsed. Maron had a good and generally funny answer to all of the questions which were posed and Ulane seemed to know when the joke was finished and when to ask the next question. But as the interview went on, less scripted things seemed to begin to start happening. Maron, who himself is an excellent interviewer started to take control of the interview. It seemed like he was getting excited, but that really happened when he was allowed to answer fan questions. As he said earlier in the interview “that fourth wall [needs] to be sort sufficiently broken.”

“Boundaries are not anything I’m good at,” he said, “So I actually go out of my way to break that boundary.” And there is almost no better way to do that than talking directly to your audience.

As he spoke with them, he was getting up, and pacing, and preaching and the whole audience was laughing. It became apparent that he was improvising everything he said. He was laughing some of the things he said, gone was the level-headed, coolness of the rehearsed interview. Now the questions were fresh and fun and the people asking them were also fresh and fun. Because they weren’t just fans asking silly questions like what Maron’s favorite color was, they were asking for his advice. They were comics and actors still paying their dues and Maron empathized with them.

He talked, in his interview about the weird relationship he had with fans. Where since he had always been so personal on his podcast, his fans knew everything about him and they’d approach his like friends. Only he still knew nothing about them. But he could assume that they were people like him and because of that he could have this weird relationship with them that was still kind of nice.

Here is a link to a video of the interview.

BOOK REVIEW: Paper Children by Mariana Marin (UDP, 2006) by Masha Jennings

Mariana Marin lived her life under the Ceausescu dictatorship as is mentioned by translator Adam J Sorkin in his Introduction to Paper Children. He also mentions that Marin was born in Bucharest to a mother in a weaving collective (Paper Children, UDP, 2006). The book is her first collection published in English. Released by Ugly Duckling Presse in 2006. Adam J Sorkin continues throughout his introduction to speak broadly about Marin’s life and her adventures as an avant garde poet in a totalitarian society. I can’t help but empathize with Marin’s focal point on Death (moarte, a feminine she in many of Marin’s poems). The definition of ‘totalitarian’, according to Dictionary.com, is “a centralized government that does not tolerate parties of differing opinion.” This may seem to only apply well to those regimes in Eastern Europe and South-East Asia that were once called “Communist”. The notion however, is that it applies to our own liberal society* just as well.

To know what Marin is talking about in her poem “Leprosarium” (p.11) one must simply understand what it means to be treated like a terrorist. “We live our lives beneath our scalps with the same ferocity/ as we can imagine in the bellies of African children.” What is meant by ‘like a terrorist’? The suspicion expressed openly in closed door meetings mandated by one’s institution’s security apparatus. Not even so far as Guantanamo Bay. Just as far as the Campus Security office at your local community college. It is interesting to note that the last existing ‘Leprosarium’ or Leper Colony is in Romania, Marin’s native country. The Leper and the Communist had much in common in the Western Liberal Democracies in the 20th Century. This new century has placed the government target on the head of Terrorists now. Terrorism, a code word for Islamic Fundamentalism in this Liberal Democracy, has it’s national examples like Communism had in Romania, Yugoslavia, and Poland. Afghanistan under control of the Taliban, and the Islamic State or IS in what was once Eastern Syria and Western Iraq.

How can Marin speak to the heart of the totalitarianism of a liberal democracy? How can she tell a United States citizen how they feel? How can she talk about death and have someone here think of Freddie Gray**, or think of Fred Hampton**, or think of any number of names that have been covered up or forgotten so that America’s business-as-usual is maintained. It is her experience with the government “that exercis[ed] dictatorial control over many aspects of [her] life.” (Dictionary.com, “Totalitarian”). That razor’s edge that crops up in her poetry when she questions if a metaphor should be wrung by the neck (“The Chess Match”, p.29). It all culminates in a collection that speaks to the power of poetic verse to speak to the truth of  power.


*liberal - Strictly in the sense of classical liberalism which prizes individual rational action and thought over collective or corporate will. In our liberal society these ideals are obviously corrupted in the name of government's political authority and the economic authority of the corporation.

**Freddie Carlos Gray Jr. - Killed by Baltimore Police while in custody for possession of an alleged illegal "switchblade knife".
**Fred Hampton - Killed by Chicago Police and agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation during a politically motivated raid on his residence due to his leadership position within the Black Panther Party.

Yankee's baceball game -Review by Tomm McCarthy

A Yankees baseball game can be regarded as an artistic performance.

The chief argument against this point of view is that sports are not art. Or that there isn’t deliberation of intentionality in a baseball game and that sports are jockish, not high culture or bourgeoisie. That there is nothing poetic about the phrase, “It’s a grand salami!”

And all of this is a matter of opinion, an editorial, so let me preface the review of this game on Mother’s Day with my own, condensed editorialization: sports are artforms.

Before the game on Sunday, which was the last game in a set of four games against the Orioles, the game on Sunday was rehearsed. There were two different versions being practiced: one by the Orioles in which they wrote lines and beats and actions that had them winning the ballgame, and one by the Yankees in which they composed a similar game, with a the same plot structure, the same characters, but ending instead with them winning. On Mother’s day, these two teams got together to perform simultaneously the stories that they had written. But because of the dissonance of their narratives, the play struck an entirely different chord and it became impossible to tell the original of either story.

Like an exquisite corpse story, the action of this story passed between multiple participants. The narrative began between Machado of the Orioles and Pineda, pitcher for the Yankees. Here, Machado struck out, and this narrative resembled the Yankees original screenplay. But when Adam Jones, an outfielder for the Orioles, hits a double, suddenly the script doesn’t resemble either teams.

Now, truth be told, neither of these original scripts were very interesting anyways. Mostly the composed of one team, (the writing team) scoring as many points as possible every inning before admitting that they probably couldn’t be that good and writing the other team being struck out over and over again without so much as a hit. There is not a lot of originality in that piece. It seems more a plan and less a play. But that’s why this is not a defense of baseball strategy and a defense of the game itself as art. Because what is really beautiful is when those two conflicted screenplays explode against each other in magnificent ways.

At the top of the second, J. Hardy scored a homer for the Orioles and then there was real struggle. The fans, the home team fans were distraught, were losing. This was not the play that they wanted to see. But that conflict was powerful enough so that at the bottom of the fourth when Carlos Beltran hit a run on a line drive to right field, tying the game, there was a cathartic release. Tension was alleviated, but at the same time also increased. The Yankees weren’t losing but it was still anybody’s game. The plot, as is often said, thickened.

So when three more runs are batted in that inning, everyone feel some how more profound and a new plot is taking shape, one that isn’t an underdog plot for the Yankees, but of dominance. And here, I think, is the mistake in the writing. If the game is to continue for five more innings there must still be mistakes in order to hold an audience’s interest, and not on the losing side, but on the winning side. A plot is strong when conflict lasts until the end and the ending feels earned instead of expected. So the rest of the game wasn’t interesting in that respect.

Cheers from the crowd were half hearted, even when the Yankees hit two more runs, and the Orioles only hit one. There was never a fear that the Yankees would lose, everything was secured already. People were leaving before the seventh inning.

But hey, art isn’t for everyone.

Bernadette Mayer Review Poem by Jessie Branch

A review poem inspired by Bernadette Mayer and her reading of "Story" at St. Marks Church, May 6, 2015.

Sweet lovers say goodbye and I watch them leave

one by one;

14 stories is 13 stories too many

but we love her--

One by one the people say goodbye--

they exit quietly with haste

they chalk it up to other engagements

and can't stop fidgeting--

They can't stop fidgeting because

their legs and feet are falling asleep,

they dream of sleep,

in the same way that she dreams of

laughter--

She lost her train of thought in the same

way that he lost his ability to stop

drumming softly on his thighs--

--is this some kind of inside joke

that I don't understand?--

How many of her stories do I not understand?

Suddenly I get it, it is existence, this poem,

it is about the beginning and its nothingness,

how much there is in the middle,

and how at the end there is so little again; Maybe

all of the stories will end, maybe in the end

there will be one story

that finishes it all, one story that tells it all or Nothing,

maybe Nothing will matter,

none of these stories and none

of the beginnings or ends because in the end

there is Nothing--

Nothing has to do with anything;

my beginning, myself, there was Nothing

except all of the stories I entered into--

Nothing, and, in one, the other.

ROnaldo Wilson/ Mendi and Keith Obadike - Review By Rachel Cee

I went to the reading at St Marks monday and caught Ronaldo Wilson, an internet opera composer, and Mendi and Keith Obadike, a couple who works at Columbia in the black music archive department. The whole reading was amazing and I consider it to be the one I have most enjoyed at St Mark’s so far.

The introduction given for Ronaldo was about operatic mode as a filter and to think through the following readings and our current world. The mc for the night asked us to consider how it “sheltered parts of space” and how that related to us. What Ronaldo expects from opera is aesthetic pleasure in it’s true state. The guy who runs the Poetry Project Monday’s then went on to talk about the body and dialectics and what happens in both realms when these tend to disappear, that what’s dead is dead.

When Ronaldo hit the stage and spoke his poetry was mostly about homosexual sex as he is a queer male poet. He read about different lovers and he said that his introduction had been “all right on, all that stuff about friendship was right on.” Ronaldo read until “language wrecks itself” but it hadn’t, the listener just hoped the tongue bath their eardrums had just received was about to their physical body.

Mendi and Keith’s installation work was very different, the tone was spiritual and almost religious, but both artists works related to freedom and struggle. I felt that Mendi and Keith’s works often referenced numerology and voodoo and were absolutely stunning. Should I have had more time to study the works before this review I can only imagine the enormous amount of facts or innuendo woven throughout. An installation piece with a 200 hour house song as the centerpiece needs a great deal of material to build on to exist. These amazing artists touched me with their narrative poem about the ogre, who brought an army back to life as zombies and hammered their hands to the size of “cold blue mountains” to block out the light of the moon to continue to torture the towns people. They asked the question, “One hundred years from now who will be talking about the struggle?” The artists ended on the note of wondering how long we would all still be fighting for freedom.

I could not have imagined a better reading to be at to have the questions posed seriously in such a compelling yet comforting manner. Selfish feelings of a wish to end all struggle and be free rose up inside me and I almost cried during the ogre poem. I was very awkward when I asked the artists if I could take their portraits for my poets and publishers, people final project. They all agreed and were so wonderful I had such a nice time meeting them. Ronaldo was my first person to really pose and I hope these portraits turn out really well, just like the rest of the evening.