Run On Review: 7 Pounds

Will Smith is a mysterious sexy sad man who lurks Anton Chigurh-style throughout the proceedings stalking Rosario Dawson throughout a hospital slipping past receptionists and stopping closing elevator doors with a black briefcase showing up next to her bed several minutes after recieving a cellphone call from her in order to determine that she's a good person so that he can give her a 6 month extension on the balance of back taxes she owes the IRS after showing up in her backyard to feed her vegan Great Dane raw meat but before eventually fixing her vintage printing press during a subsequent break-in which precedes sleeping with her which then directly precedes him sprinting in a salmon-colored shirt through the rain to call his friend [dude from saving Private Ryan who's like a cross between Gary Busey and Michael Douglas] who's been instructed to forcably convince the people at the hospital to give the now dead from jellyfish-induced suicide Will Smith's heart to the suffering from congenital heart failure Rosario Dawson and his eyes to a vision impaired Woody Harrelson so the two can subsequently hook up after a childrens chorus recital once Rosario Dawson has found the world's greatest sundress and Woody Harrelson has a better haircut.

I Don't Know What The Fuck To Read

I don't know what the fuck to read. I thought about maybe a list of the year's best books, that were in my general purview of poetry reading habits. But I'm drawing a total fucking blank as to what could further my education, give me a deeper understanding of geopolitical events, teach me how to grow a victory garden, or understand current poetics. This is because I don't know what the fuck to read. If I had any idea what the fuck to read, I'd be reading that right now wouldn't I? I once read a few pages into Ulysses, a little of The Cantos, a smattering of Remembrance Of Things Past. Not knowing what the fuck to read, I was doomed not to finish those books. I read some of The Bible once. And an entire book of Dennis Miller's rants, when I didn't have cable, a long time ago. I also made Suddenly Salad in a fry pan. And I lived in Jackson, Wisconsin. There is a Jackson, Wisconsin. At around the time in my life when I lived there I read the wrong translation of Rimbaud, the one you're not supposed to read, but hey, I don't know what the fuck to read.

Not knowing what the fuck to read has left me it seems with 2 options. I can join the police force or holler at you over the Telecommunications that Homeland Security provides. It's not Homeland Security's fault that I don't know what the fuck to read. They don't teach me what to read, but I knew that already! In order to enjoy what I'm reading, I need to know that I was supposed to have been reading it. Know what I mean?

And finally I can't rely on nature to tell me what to read. It doesn't tell me. When I try to read it, it kind of snickers all in a round. Like the drinking songs of nature are God's ontological drinking songs.

Reading has no point in The Real Deal of today's multiple meltdown scenarios either. Trying to figure out which meltdown to read is like trying to take a big crap in the woods, and Armed Guerrillas are all around, snickering at you. They're humming the drinking songs. And the drinking songs were reinvented from Nature.

The deeper a person gets into not knowing what the fuck to read, the more they can actually enjoy reading on a cellular level. If they have a reliable network of Armed Guerrillas at their disposal that is... Sometimes when I look into the sunset, I feel a fatter sunset is emerging. A more tactile one than where I attended the Universities, which also failed to show the correct reading material. The reading materials of this sunset appear to be vast and large, have acne scars that are weeping uncontrollably. Those acne scars function as time-stopping goofs, skips within the network of reading that proliferates in a consuming consciousness, until it becomes obsolete. In each acne scar is a dictionary of diagrams. And each diagram is a diagram of a person's reading habits, updated each time one of the poor weeping pores blinks an eye.

Art Tasers Monthly
by Weldon Gardner Hunter & Mike Hauser

What happens when "Marche" asks "Umm, a didgeridoo./ Why?", and April calls back "o innocent importune booger!!/ create!"?

What happens is Art Tasers Monthly, a collaboration I did with the very gifted poet and flaneur about Vancouver, Weldon Gardner Hunter, that I also happen to be very proud of. I have a few copies, just out from Ruining Your Vacation Press. I might take them to Woodland to put on consignment. But hey make me an offer. Or try RuiningYVPress@gmail.com.

Also out is Meal Ticket #1, featuring the same Mr. Hunter, Lindsay Colahan, Brittney Dennison, and Ryan Clark, also most likely hit-up-able through RuiningYVPress.gmail.com.

I happen to have friends who are great musicians, as well as friends who are great poets. (And friends who are hilarious, sexy, contrarian, slinky etc.) My great friend Zack Pieper happens to be both of those from the first sentence. And on both the poetic and musical tips are these two awesome debuts from two seperate projects in just the last few months. Should I decide which one I like more? I ask myself this only for a second. It'll probably just be a case of diurnal promiscuity. I'll probably listen to The Trusty Knife more often in the morning (my morning, which is 11 or so), and Farms In Trouble later at night. That's the trend that's developing anyway. The Trusty cd while not yet posted, is available, so get on their asses about that too.

Riverwest Currency.

Mike's Plans for The Afternoon

Back to you, Karl!

New Vernacular

Person 1: How are you?

Person 2: Hangin' in there like vintage kitties!

Possible Futures

You might find yourself fighting John Cougar Mellencamp to the death for a hunk of bread.

Logged In

Now that I've logged in I have nothing to say.

Thanksgiving

My father used the word 'usurious' in a sentence. This is one way in which he's similar to Ezra Pound.

Does anybody know how to get spyware off of a PC? Help old Mike out.

I was told today my building has "The Cadillac" of heating systems. So maybe this could be another incentive for members of the opposite gender to visit my apartment. My last apartment, I dunno, "The Hyundai" of heating systems? I'm just happy this one's an automatic.

My apartment is cold, my hands are dry.

My credit score's probably closer to how long creationists think the world has existed.

Talking Points

Because of how my hair lays after a bath, I might briefly have a mullet today.

How does one study tableaus?

And now today its that newish Beyonce song where it's like "if you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it." Directed at Jay-Z? I don't keep up with these things.

[It wouldn't have been directed at Jay-Z because he did put a ring on it.-- MH, 1-17-09]

This morning I have this admittedly terrible song in my head. What do you do in these situations? Resistance only makes it worse. I think every song by Extreme is an encoded message compelling me to go to Target.

And please don't say "22 mg of Morrisey STAT" or something like that because that doesn't work either. Maybe 23 hours of Kenneth Anger films...

Coda: I just took a bath and I realized that was an actual ad for Target wasn't it? This is an extremely depressing development.

Salacious Banter

Lewis Warsh
John Koethe

Thursday, November 13
8pm

900 S 5th.
5th & Walker Walker's Point
Milwaukee
Food and drinks provided
Suggested donation: 5 dollars

Lewis Warsh has been a luminary on New York’s writing scene for 40 years. With Anne Waldman, he co-edited Angel Hair Books and Press, an important catalyst in the "mimeo revolution" of the 1960s and publisher of Alice Notley, Philip Whalen, Bernadette Mayer and Ron Padgett among others. The Angel Hair Anthology, brought out by Granary Books in 2001, was also co-edited with Waldman. Since 1977 he has edited United Artists Books.

Previous works of poetry, fiction and autobiography include Inseperable: Poems 1995-2005, Touch Of The Whip and The Maharajah's Son. Of the poetry collection, The Origin Of The World, Robert Creeley wrote: “Given the complexity of this world and all the myriad people who are in it, these poems are poignantly articulate experiments, which reach out endlessly, day or night, so as to feel another is still there too. If one could ever doubt, Lewis Warsh proves again that the world exists, even after all is said and done.” Here's a link to his website: http://www.lewiswarsh.org/


John Koethe has been placed by many critics in the tradition of Wallace Stevens and John Ashbery. Robert Huddleston wrote this of his work: "he can show us as few other contemporary poets can into an oneiric world of magnificent austerity."

Some of his books are The Late Wisconsin Spring, Falling Water, North Point North and his latest Sally’s Hair published in 2007 from Harper-Collins. He has taught Philosophy at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee since 1973. More at Koethe’s page at The Poetry Foundation Website.

"On the other other hand, "Area Man" by Nothing in that Drawer is simply unlistenable" or ?

Cronenbergian or Lynchian?