I will be reading from my new book, and will have copies for sale, here:

April 25th – Niagara Falls Culinary Institute, 28 Old Falls Street, Niagara Falls, NY.

May 9 – Talking Leaves Books, 3158 Main Street, Buffalo, NY.

Wahoo!

No Tribe, No Tribute
poems by Marc Pietrzykowski
Print: $13. 82 pages.
ISBN-13: 978-1479212637 ISBN-10: 1479212636
Official Publication Date: March 23, 2013
If you would like to read about planes crashing, Cool Hand Luke, numerology, Suleiman the Magnificent, cleaning the cat box, the Tetragrammaton, traffic cones, circuit court judges with bad shoes, and Omaha, Nebraska, then wow, are you in luck. Marc Pietrzykowski’s fifth book of poetry mentions all of those things at least once! Also, No Tribe, No Tribute is inexpensive and completely blurb-free, as we at Pski’s Porch believe blurbs to be the buboes of the publishing world. We hope you find pleasure and value in this, the third book published by Pski’s Porch, and keep your antennae up for news of future releases.

Addendum: I can see the end of listening to all my Cds, one at a time. I have a few hundred more to get through, but good god, I can see the end. Here are the latest listens:

647) Sam Phillips: Martinis and Bikinis; 648) Wire: Chairs Missing; 649) This Mortal Coil: Filigree and Shadow; 650) Linda Thompson: Dreams Fly Away; 651) Divya Lila: Vaiyasaki Das; 652) Various: Hawaii’s Greatest Hits; 653) Kenny Roby: Mercury’s Blues; 654) The Music Man: Soundtrack; 655) Migala: Restos de un Incendio; 656) The Church:  After Everything Now This; 657) Blue Oyster Cult: Tyranny and Mutation; 658) Spirit:  Best of Spirit; 659) Prince: 1999; 660) Junior Brown: Guit With It; 661) Romeo Void: Warm in Your Coat; 662) Smashing Pumpkins: Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness; 663) The Wolfe Tones: Spirit of the Nation; 664) Richard Thompson: Old Kit Bag; 665) Haydn: Violin and Cello Concertos; 666) Groove Armada: The Remixes; 667) Neville Brothers: Live on Planet Earth; 668) Gypsy Passion: New Flamenco; 669) The Modern Lovers: The Modern Lovers; 670) Even Cowgirls Get the Blues: Soundtrack; 671) Indigo Girls: Become You.

I just started reading Not By Genes Alone, a book about gene–culture coevolution, the idea that human behavior is based on the interaction of biology and culture, that culture affects the evolution of our biological states, of our genes, and not just the other way around. It’s a way of thinking around the nature/nurture debate, which has always seemed a silly debate to me. So, the very first chapter is about how the Southern US is more violent than the North, how men are more likely to kill one another there, and how it relates to the concept of honor. The authors cite studies that show Southerners more likely to be both polite, because of honor, and likely to quickly become violent when they feel their own honor is challenged, accompanied by surges in cortisone and testosterone. It got me thinking about folks who are gun ownership radicals–a group far more prevalent in the South–and how they build these dramatic narratives in which they are protecting something heroically, something they deem a matter of honor, of citizenship: the right to own guns as a means to protect themselves. What they might be protecting themselves from is not so important (the Government, Shadowy Thugs, Home Invasions, Mentally Ill People who Also Have Guns), what is key is that there are enemies about, and they are heroes, ready to go quickly from calm to murderous. It made me wonder to what degree this narrative was biologically conditioned, and inherited, that perhaps much of the population of gun ownership radicals have a predilection to surges of cortisone and testosterone, and the degree to which this “defending my family/country etc” narrative is simply an outlet for a genetic predisposition. If that’s the case, then I both feel sad for those folks, since it must be hard to find ways to construct narratives of self that place one in the role of faithful hero, but it also makes me believe even more strongly that these are the people who should have the least access to guns, since they are more likely to be violent. In as much as the NRA has tried to shift the narrative to “it’s a mental health issue,” I wonder if they would accede to genetic and cultural testing as a test for gun ownership, with those folks who have both a genetic disposition toward violence and cultural history of violence, be restricted from owning guns? Actually, I know the answer, I just wonder what flimsy argument they might come up with to challenge the suggestion. That said, such a test is in no way close to emerging from the research, and it is important to be very careful not to fall into the simplistic evolutionary psych pit of claiming gene x=behavior x. Still, it’s worth pondering why some people want so badly to believe they are heroes, and that their manhood (for it is almost inevitably men) is predicated on honor as a midwife for violent action.

Cds listened to as I try to listen to all the ones I own: 623) Jonathan Richman: Surrender to Jonathan!; 624) Dolly Parton: RCA Country Legends; 625) Sam and Dave: Soul Man; 626) Honky Hoppers: Standing Room Only; 627) Ernest Tubb: Country Music Hall of Fame Series; 628) The Band: The Band; 629) Múm: Go Go Smear the Poison Ivy; 630) Yo La Tengo: Painful; 631) Nanci Griffiths: The Complete MCA Recordings; 632) Camper Van Beethoven: Key Lime Pie; 633) Bjork: Telegram; 634) T-Bone Walker: The Complete Imperial Recordings, 1950-54; 635) The Only Ones: The Only Ones; 636) The Residents: Duck Stab; 637) Tony Toni Tone: Sons of Soul; 638) Thievery Corporation: The Mirror Conspiracy; 639) Morphine: Good; 640) Producer’s Trophy: Roof International; 641) Indiana Stone: Struggle; 642) The Cardigans: Super Extra Gravity; 643) Ana Moura: Keep My Life in Your Hand; 644) The Rolling Stones:  Exile on Main St.; 645) Banco de Gaia: Iqizeh; 646) Bjork: Debut.

If No Moon is a book of poems by Moira Linehan, published as part of the Crab Orchard Review series in 2006. I read one of her poems online, I can’t remember where, and liked it enough to seek out more, and then to buy the book. I’ve read it through a few times now, and each time I find myself alternately moved and annoyed: moved by the way she treats the subject of caring for her husband as he dies, and annoyed by the way the rest of the poems in the collection make the same kinds of stylistic maneuvers but fail to move me. I feel a bit morbid, and not at all like blaming the poet for failing to push the poems about Ireland or poetics into the same melding of form and function that the dieing spouse poems do, but that’s what happens with this book. Perhaps having the more emotionally immediate poems at the start creates an appetite in the reader the rest of the work cannot satisfy. All the poems are very carefully crafted; some, in the manner of far too much modern poetry, is crafted to the point of sedation, all vigor machined away, as poets are taught to do in workshops: “Shadows and shivers, like spurts of chimney swifts sweeping / through, down, over what you hold dear.” I hear Mona Van Duyn throughout If No Moon, perhaps a bit of Mary Oliver,and while Linehan has yet to see her way though to a voice as distinctive, she does point the way toward such distinctiveness in poems like “What He Did For Me,” “Just Name It,” and especially, “Against Asking,” which turns a stuttering syntax into a bright, aching throb:

He said to me Don’t ask me
to talk but what did that
mean what did I know
now that he was he was
he don’t ask me
how I thought of it but I said
Let’s pray to our mothers
didn’t he have to talk to someone
didn’t he didn’t I if I if
I knelt on the floor
I could get closer close to
him in that bed when you pray with
the man who’s gotten inside you

This is the kind of craft I can get behind, careful but raw, verging on loss of control, creating an unexpected rhythm that excites rather than lulls… there is enough poetry about today that tries to lull, entice, make pretty noises that excuse themselves. I hope Linehan follows the jagged path, rather than the one marked with scented candles.

CDs I’ve listened to lately, as I try to listen to all the CDs I own, in a row: 601) Hüsker Dü: Zen Arcade; 602) The Music of Kentucky: Vol 2; 603) Girls Against Boys: Freakonica; 604) The Kings Of Swing: Kings of Swing; 605) Chuck Berry: Chuck Berry’s Golden Hits; 606) Johnny Cash: The Gospel Collection; 607) Cowboy Junkies: The Trinity Sessions; 608) Gomez: In Our Gun; 609) Lee “Scratch” Perry: Soundz From the Hot Line; 610) Petracovitch: We Are Wyoming; 611) Radiohead: Pablo Honey; 612) Schoolhouse Rock: The Best Of; 613) Soundgarden: Badmotorfinger; 614) Emmylou Harris: Songbird; 615) The Verve: Urban Hymns; 616) Suede: Nude; 617) kd lang: Watershed; 618) Gregory Isaacs: I.O.U.; 619) Kenny Burrell: Midnight Blue; 620) Henryk Gorecki: String Quartets 1 and 2; 621) Iran: Persian Classical Music; 622) Moby: Play.

Oh such a lax blogger I’ve been. And shall continue to be for a few days, stopping now only to advertise a new book I’ve done with an artist friend. Instead of doing the usual reading tour, I’m going to try and upload some videos of images from the book and myself reading them (unless I can get someone with a better voice to do it), we’ll see how the virtual book launch goes…

Announcing the publication of
Conflagrations: Poems and Images
an emblem book by Mary Leary and Marc Pietrzykowski

Print: $17. 74 pages. ISBN: 1478159340 / 978-1478159346
Official Book Launch November/December 2012, by Pski’s Porch Publishing. Available soon now from Amazon.com and other retailers.

Emblem books were all the rage during the 16th and 17th centuries. Pski’s Porch Publishing sees no good reason why they shouldn’t be all the rage in this young century as well. In an emblem book, image and poem are paired, producing a composite art where each element somehow amplifies or complements the other. This relationship might be comical, didactic, obscure, ambient, or all of these at once–the way each pairing constitutes a single work is left largely up to the reader. That said, there are certain unifying characteristics to these works: each of the pairings in Conflagrations is somehow concerned with the word “fire,” and the three sections, titled “Flux and Fire,” “Gods and Goddesses,” and “Backburn,” are also thematically linked. We hope you find pleasure and value in this, the second book published by Pski’s Porch, and keep your antennae primed for future releases.

(but, did I listen to any CDs on my quest to listen to all the ones I own, in order? Yes, in fact, I listen to a Fats Waller box set, If You Got to Ask You Ain’t Got It, and learned: a) I need to get more Fats Waller, boy did he swing, and b) this:

The strange, broiling summer has given way to a strange, schizoid fall season, my nose is a-flutter with ragweed, and the blankets on the bed have multiplied. I have no idea how much of the erratic weather of the last few years is due to global climate change, and how much of that is due to human activity, but scientific consensus seems indicate the answer to both questions is, “a lot, maybe less, likely more,” and so another fuzzy layer of anxiety is woven into the zeitgeist, a future of refugees and food shortages, a JG Ballard eventuality seems more and more likely. Or, I’m getting older, and was already cynical to begin with, and all the wonderful potentiality embedded in the future will flower in ways I cannot imagine, let alone anticipate. Perhaps a human life is just long enough to think the whole species is going to shit, and that’s somehow an evolutionary advantage… ah well, doesn’t stop me from wanting to make a spectacle of myself in various ways: I read recently at a local bookstore to launch my first novel and nascent publishing company; I’m having a pub crawl and reading on Saturday, just because; I’ll be in 2 bands playing scary songs at a Halloween party on Oct 26th; and my next book of poems, a collaboration with visual artist Mary Leary, will be out around the same time, late October/early November. All of which should sound like bragging, or at least marketing, but I’ve listed these things because I’m still not sure why I bother, other than it makes me feel better to write and read and make art and bla bla bla… but why? Common answers: creativity relieves emotional tension (maybe, but it causes at least as much as it creates, and whither the need to share the output); art communicates and our lives are lonely (I suppose, yes, but making intensifies this loneliness, the sharing of it can help, but can also further isolate); I’m a big show-off who wants attention (ah, if it were that simple, I don’t crave attention and would rather be anonymous, still trying to figure out how to make that work)… I’ll go with Jim Sturm‘s explanation for now:

[...] I have no idea and, secondly, the reasons are unimportant. Depending on my mood, on any given day, I could attribute making art to a high-minded impulse to connect with others or to understand the world or a narcissistic coping mechanism or a desire to be famous or therapy or as my religious discipline or to provide a sense of control or a desire to surrender control, etc., etc., etc. Whatever the reason, an inner compulsion exists and I continue to honor this internal imperative. If I didn’t, I would feel really horrible. I would be a broken man. So whether attempting to make art is noble or selfish, the fact remains that I will do it nevertheless. Anything past this statement is speculation.

Works for me, for now. Wondering about other people’s art helps me get at the question, or dig the hole deeper, so recently I’ve read The Invisibles again (gets long in the tooth by vol 7, I’m afraid), gotten lost in the Frank Book, discovered Gregor von Rezzari and Blaise Cendrars, wept at Beasts of the Southern Wild and countless other works (I like art that makes me cry)… I also grabbed, more or less at random, three recent poetry bundles to compare: Steam Laundry, by Nicole Stellon O’Donnell; My Pinball Brain, by Carol J. McKelvey; and the latest issue of Colorado Review.

Steam Laundry is a narrative series of poems by an author who has clearly spent a great deal of time studying poetry with like-minded folks, so it’s carefully written, sometimes gripping, sometimes not so gripping, uses nice font and plenty of clean white space, all the usual markers of a book by an academically trained poet. And, as such, it has most of the usual virtues and vices of such poetry: some lovely language and gentle cadences, attention to imagery, and an overarching plan–all the things that are supposed to add up to a poetic “voice”–on the virtuous side, and some terribly dull patches where language, imagery, and too much concern for consistency on the side of vice. The poems that stitch together lists from real historical documents add little, but having a focused historical narrative helps drive the whole project, so while it’s not WG Sebald, it’s clear what O’Donnell is trying to do. And at least she seems to care about making people want to read her work, unlike the Colorado Review  poets–no, that’s wrong, of course they care, the poor scribes who have to invent an edge to be cutting about within the confines of the literary-theoretical complex, but they only really care about their peers. The idea is to defamiliarize the reader by making shards of text and image and syntax, an old idea that had pretty much eaten itself (in other words, become institutionalized) by the 1970′s, but here it is, again, propped up and wheezing. Instead of defamiliarizing people who know what defamiliarizing is, why not try to reach those who could give a shit, instead of defamiliarizing each other like a group of junior high kids groping each other in the rec room, transgressing the way they were taught to transgress, thereby feeling naughty without actual risk, transgressing within the safety of the wood panelling and flavoured lipstick. Why not? I dunno. Every poem seemed issued forth from a putty machine. Sad. Honestly trangressive, without even trying, is My Pinball Brain, poetry as outsider art, written by someone who clearly has not studied with other poets and teachers of poetry in the academy. Much of it is not very good, and much of it is strangely affecting, and instead of an author photo on the back, there’s a picture of a baby monkey. Of the three books, this is the one I read the most, because it was so different from the others and from what is generally considered good poetry I had to teach myself to read it in order to understand what worked and what didn’t. In other words, it defamiliarized me. Cheers.

CDs, as I listen to all I own, one at a time: 594) Omara Portuondo: Buena Vista Social Club Presents; 595) Mozart: Cosi Fan Tutte (Simon Rattle); 596) Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians: Shooting Rubber Bands at the Stars (worse than I remember, which is bad); 597) Deep Forest: Deep Forest (no idea where this came from); 598) Mission of Burma: The Horrible Truth About Burma; 599) The Waitresses: Best Of; 600) The Buzzcocks: Operator’s Manual—-and yahoo! Now that I’ve hit 600, I get to listen to a box set. And this time, I’ll go back to writing about the music… you promised…

After publishing three books of poetry with fine, generous small publishers, I’ve decided to start an imprint (Pski’s Porch Publishing–website coming soon) and publish my own writing. Why would I decide to destroy my literary career this way? Well, because “the publishing world is changing,” as they say. And they’re right, but what kinds of changes does this godawful cliché refer to? The rapid spread and corresponding low cost of on-demand printing? The proliferation of eBooks and eReaders? The explosion of internet-based distribution networks? Or the acquisition of big publishing houses by even bigger international conglomerates? The right answer—yes, all of these—begs a further question: are these changes good for us? If “us” means authors who prefer to maintain control of their work, and of everything involved in getting that work to readers, then again, the answer is clearly “yes,” as long as their eyes are clear and their ambitions aligned with what self-publishing can offer. Even the bit about the traditional high cotton publishers getting eaten by media conglomerates affords an opportunity, since they will likely, in pursuit of profit rather than quality, continue alienating readers who want something more, thereby helping increase the audience for more challenging work.

So, to return to the destruction of my career, I’ve decided to start publishing my own writing—beginning with my first novel, Music Box Dancer—because I recognized the changes outlined above afforded me an opportunity to:

• print books with a much smaller initial capital investment than traditional printing, with little, if any, degradation of print quality;

• write the kinds of books I wanted to write, without the need to sculpt my work for a mass market—or even small market—audience;

• take advantage of the burgeoning digital book market, as well as internet-based national and international distribution networks;

• stop pretending I think of my artistic endeavors as a career, when really they are a means to living, an avocation that keeps me alive.

In other words, I saw that I could Do It Myself. As someone who came of age during the punk rock/DIY scene of the 1980’s and 90’s, Doing It Yourself is an expression of the link between artistic control and artistic freedom. That said, I am not able to Do It All Myself, so I chose to form an imprint through the printing and distribution company that offered the best return for my initial investment. That investment is a waste, of course, if no one l wants to read what I have written, but luckily I am exactly arrogant enough to think my words have some value to others, that someone I’ve never met might benefit—by laughing, cringing, or feeling that compulsion to turn the page—after reading my work. That is also where my arrogance stops, however: at a few appreciative readers, which is all I can hope for, which is all any writer can really hope for.

Music Box Dancer is presently available on Amazon.com, and should be available through several other online and brick-and-mortar stores in a few months. The “official” book launch will take place then, in September or early October. The next book Pski’s Porch will publish is a collaboration between myself and visual artist Mary Leary, sometime in November.

I posted this a while back on Facebook, but I want to have it up here too, so:

W. H. Auden included the following questionnaire in his book of essays, The Dyer’s Hand. It’s meant to make potential critics think about what sort of Eden (his term) they envision; I prefer “Utopia,” but the point is the same. So: describe the following characteristics of your Utopia:

>>>Landscape

A very steep mountainous region sloping downward through a wide plain, leading to the ocean. Marshes on one side of the plain, forest of Redwoods on the other. Plenty of streams and rocky bits throughout. The ocean region should have one pristine beach and one very deep harbor, otherwise cliffs and crags.

>>>Climate

2 Months of winter (Dec/Jan), including at least 1 heavy snowstorm that makes everyone have to stay home and drink cocoa. 3 months of summer, including at least 1 blazingly hot day that makes everyone have to snooze and drink lemonade. Spring and Fall should be pleasant, something like the Mid-Atlantic US or southern Europe. The occasional roaring thunderstorm.

>>>Ethnic Origin of Inhabitants

As varied as possible, including the search for new genetic material in outer space.

>>>Language

All local languages are encouraged, but everyone must also learn a lingua franca (Spanish). Wandering mendicants (see: “economic activities”) will also collect new words to be added to the lingua franca.

>>>Weights and Measures

Metric.

>>>Religion

Anything that does not involve proselytizing or the killing of non-believers. Anything that does not threaten the system of government. Religions that encourage communal feasting.

>>>Size of Capital

15,000, that is, 3 local community units of 5,000 people each.

>>>Form of Government

Economically: Socialist. Homes and private possessions allowed, everything else comunally owned. Culturally: Direct-Democratic, with a dash of Anarchy. Government officials chosen by lot, all seats have 2 year terms.

>>>Sources of Power

Geothermal, floating solar platforms, body heat.

>>>Economic Activities

Exchange of local currencies (each community of 5,000 people will have their own currency), indexed bartering. Every citizen is required to spend at least 1 year as a wandering mendicant.

>>>Means of Transport

Horse and wagon, bicycles, dirigibles, those jet tubes from “The Jetsons.” No gas powered vehicles; instead of NASCAR, have Segway races.

>>>Architecture

Classical Byzantine for public buildings, Traditional Japanese for homes.

>>>Domestic Furniture and Equipment

Art Deco, Roycroft, yearly furniture making expos (see “public entertainment”). No microwave ovens.

>>>Formal Dress

Tuxedos with top hat and tails, Directoire/Regency/Empire gowns, London swinging 60′s styles. Everyone should attend at least one costume party during the year.

>>>Sources of Public Information

Graffiti, public declamation, local community newspapers (print and digital). All government offices are open, that is, no locks on doors or computer encryption.

>>>Public Statues and Monuments

Small “statuettes” can be requisitioned to commemorate acts of kindness. Sculptures can be commissioned at any time, but all plans must be approved by local communities beforehand.

>>>Public Entertainments

Each month every local community is responsible for some live performance or expo: a play, dance, concert, reading, plans for statues or monuments, handmade furniture, clothing, cakes etc. These can be filmed and distributed as movies. No centralized control of any form of entertainment, audiences vote at the end of performances, the best pieces are shown during a month-long festival at the end of the year. No television, all viewings of filmed pieces are communal.

CDs: 538) The Flaming Lips: At War With the Mystics; 539)Joe Jackson: Look Sharp; 540) The Stranglers: The Hit Men; 541) The Commodores: Anthology; 542) TV On The Radio: desperate youth, bloodthirsty babes.

I’ve been naughty, Santa, I have gotten so very behind listing all the CDs I’ve listened to, there are piles of them beside the computer… to recap, I am trying to listen to every CD I own, which is many, so here’s the latest batch. Sorry, Santa, don’t bring me that bottle of Scotch I asked for. No, actually, bring that, just keep the pipe cutter:

501) Dirty Three: Horse Stories; 502) Big Jack Johnson: Daddy, When is Mommie Comin Home?; 503) Funkadelic: Standing On the Verge of Getting it On; 504) Squirrel Nut Zippers: Hot; 505) A Camp: A Camp (has grown on me); 506) The Pretenders: The Singles; 507) Peter Tosh: Legalize It; 508) The Kinks: Arthur (or, The Decline and Fall of the British Empire); 509) The Stranglers: Black and White (lovely, thanks); 510) Mercury Rev: See You On The Other Side; 511) Emmylou Harris: Red Dirt Girl; 512) Brooklyn Funk Essantials: In the Buzzbag; 513) Darren Hanlon: Little Chills; 514) The Amazing Royal Crowns: The Amazing Royal Crowns; 515) Tom Waits: Heartattack and Vine (old Waits or new Waits? Cold pizza or hot pizza?); 516) Dead Kennedys: Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables; 517) Cowboy Junkies: One Soul Now; 518) Sonny Boy Williamson: Little Boy Blue; 519) The Cole Porter Songbook: Vol II (ah that’s the spot); 520) k.d. Lang: Absolute Torch and Twang (old k.d. or new…); 521) The Boomtown Rats: Best of; 522) Devo: Oh No, It’s Devo + Freedom of Choice; 523) Belle and Sebastian: The Boy With the Arab Strap; 524) Monks: Monk Time; 525) The dbs: Stands For deciBels + Repercussion; 526) Flipper: Sex Bomb Baby; 517) Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes: The Ultimate Blue Notes (follows Flipper quite well). Whew.