William S. Burroughs used to say (via Brion Gysin) that writing was fifty years behind painting.
I’ve been testing that.
A half century ago, Pop Art framed the visual media environment.
Andy Warhol’s “Campbell’s Soup I” portfolio of silkscreens was printed in 1968.
Fifty years later, editor John Trefry selects an abridged version of my “Campbell’s Soup I” for Burning House Press.
Suicide is tricky. For the individual, it promises an absolute end to a certain kind of temporal pain, sure — but then, just as quickly, it transfers that pain onto others. And according to its algebra, the multipliers can be huge.
In the absence of Mr. Cobain there’s a little game I’ve played, The Kurt Cobain Game. I wrote about it for Hobart today: “Kurt Cobain Doesn’t Know Much Of Anything.”
This is, more correctly, a very old poem — written a decade ago, submitted nine years ago, moments before H&W went on long-term hiatus.
The hiatus is over. And so is my old approach to poetry. Free verse is tolerable, and can even be occasionally good, if you look at it as not poetry but prose — lazy prose.
It’s the solstice, and I know that genres are shifting their bearing.
Woke up today to see Matt Drudge asking if Trumpism was “the new punk rock.”
That’s pretty old news—I’d written that last summer.
When the press isn’t lying, it’s stealing.