poetry/fiction/lit type stuff

My Not So Real Estate

We have been trying, my wife and I, to sell our house and buy another, which is, as anyone who has been through it knows, just about the most fun you can have without losing a limb. I suppose if one is stinking rich, it’s another easy thing floating by on a river of ease, but if you are stinking rich, you probably aren’t reading this. Actually, if you are not a bot tasked with dumping phishing links cleverly disguised as ads for fake Ray-Bans in the comment section of this site, you probably aren’t reading this, but in any case: we are trying to do the sell-buy two-step and it is not much like fun. The selling part is probably worse, since it involves keeping our current home as much like a hotel as possible, except a hotel where the sparse furnishings are your own, except that the furnishings are not really yours, inasmuch as you cannot treat, say, your coffee table with anything like the casual abandon that you did before, putting things like coffee cups on it, lest they spill, or books, lest they remind potential buyers of your disgusting presence in their dream home. Buying a…
Read more

Poem from upcoming book….

I have a new book launching Nov 19, and will have parties in Buffalo (Nov 19th) and Rochester (Dec 3rd) to celebrate. Here is a sample that seems relevant: Now It’s Personal The streets were rivers of stars and lovers and the rain came and cooled the hearts of both. Cafes and doorways flooded as the streets jumped their banks. Skulls shrunk, mouths swelled, the chatter was all of angels: angels of marginalia, angels of the engine infernal, angels of my first time, all the cherubim and seraphim of a world bone-drenched by heaven after heaven, heavens plastered on warehouse walls, heavens honking from passing cabs and radios perched on hot dog carts, heavens crackling through the space between satellites.      And as the streets turned to steam the chatter turned and spun itself into a husk the shape of a body, and a man rose from the crowd and donned the husk, showed his teeth, then spoke to the stars and lovers gathered below:      This is my shape, this is my skin, you called and I am here.        The ones who believed believed it was always thus, while the skeptics were not invited to return.        Rooks along the roofline counted…
Read more

Because where else.

I got interested in obscure Catholic saints a while back, so I wrote this ring of sonnets, then forgot about it. This seems like a good place, and time, for it: From the Periphery (Lesser-Known Saints) Saint Brioc “Please remember: dawn came, and we were freed, freed from the devils that stir up the sea, and we were grateful. Grace hid us a while from their strange eyes and teeth; grace is not guile, however, and so we beg the Lord’s mercy for those brethren swallowed by the beast before reaching Rome. Their souls will surely ascend, and they will go join in the feast of light. The King’s feast, here, is also fine, and so we give thanks, but these earthly fruits are but shadows of divine sustenance. And though we made not Rome, Cornwall does shine upon a kind of hill… so end your disputes. Pure hearts do not bicker with providence.” Saint Ludmilla “Pure hearts do not bicker with providence, nor swear allegiance to the methods of man; providence is a mountain of fire, and method but a cave in that mountain. So, though I cannot decide who loves me, I can give birth, and force, at…
Read more

More Light

Such a lovely day, -14 celsius outside, everything crisply frozen, windows steaming a bit where the cats sits, plenty of work to do inside and out, and, oh, more lost souls murdering people, this time in Paris, a bomb goes off outside an NAACP office in Colorado, so many sad, twisted people with no other way to exert power or make sense of this world but to lash out, take their revenge on the rest of us. Hannah Arendt: “…even in the darkest of times we have the right to expect some illumination, and that such illumination may well come less from theories and concepts than from the uncertain, flickering, and often weak light that some men and women, in their lives and their works, will kindle under almost all circumstances and shed over the time span that was given them on earth – this conviction is the inarticulate background against which these profiles were drawn. Eyes so used to darkness as ours will hardly be able to tell whether their light was the light of a candle or that of the blazing sun. But such objective evaluation seems to me a matter or secondary importance which can be safely…
Read more

Jim Harrison

Wonderful Michigan poet. Love your poem, Jim: Young Bull The bronze ring punctures the flesh of your nose, the wound is fresh and you nuzzle the itch against a fence post. Your testicles are fat and heavy and sway when you shake off flies; the chickens scratch about your feet but you do not notice them.   Through lunch I pitied you from the kitchen window– the heat, pained fluid of August– but when I came with cold water and feed, you bellowed and heaved against the slats wanting to murder me.     .

Opportunities to gain perspective abound

I heard a commotion outside the window, so I went in the backyard and found a squirrel who’d fallen and, I believe, broken its back, because when it saw me it tried to run up a tree with only its front feet, dragging its lower half behind it. When I heard the commotion, I’d been fretting about part of a poem I was writing about the US highway system, trying to figure out how to get some reference to the Federal-Aid Highway act of 1956 in there while still sounding poetic enough. Seems like a pretty stupid thing to fret about, now. The squirrel made up the tree as far as the top of our fence, perched for a while, staring at me, breathing like a creature with a broken spine would breathe, then kept going, up the tree, one claw at a time. Once he was gone, I let the dogs out to sit in the sun. CDs I’ve listened too, as I listen to all the CDs I own, one at a time: 801) Box Set: Pere Ubu: Datapanik in the Year Zero(fuck yeah); 802) Various: I Put a Spell on YouL The Okeh Story; 803) Beastie Boys:…
Read more

Gotta Serve Somebody

While reading articles in an academic journal recently, I was struck by how the mode of inquiry seemed derived from Management Science. The journal is written and edited by Humanities scholars and publishes articles about popular culture, yet almost every article, in the 3 issues I read through, eschewed any kind of moral or ethical argument in favor of describing the system that produces different works of art. I used to think this instinct toward systematization–in concert with a studied absence of moral critique, which I first noticed in academic literary criticism–arose from a disciplinary envy of the Sciences. The Humanities cannot prove things the same way the Sciences can, and for whatever reason, the proof offered by the Sciences has become much more valuable in the last 50 years. So, Humanities scholars have looked to a variety of systems to try and seem more objective in their scholarly work: linguistics, Marxism, structuralism, post-structuralism*, and so forth. Now, I’m beginning to think it’s not so much an envy of the Sciences, though that is surely a factor, but moreso an institutional need to appear more objective brought about by an increasingly Corporatized university system. More and more professional administrators, as…
Read more

Some Poems

By me–this journal has an interesting idea, everyone who submits then votes on other submissions, 3 rounds of voting, and the top however many get in the journal. It’s certainly a different approach than the editor or editorial board as guardian of taste… http://www.sixfold.org/PoSum13/Pietrzykowski.html

Pretty pretty

“An aesthetic response to forms is essential to the attainment of an authentic subjectivity and a creative self-illuminating awareness that is immersed in nature beyond the vacillations of personal emotion” –Heine   The judgment of a thing as beautiful is typically predicated on comparison, that the characteristics of the beautiful thing are superior to another, flawed, less beautiful thing. Thus, beauty and perfection are aligned, beauty is the expression of the most perfect example of a thing, which strikes me as very Platonic. A better understanding of beauty, one that I’ve worked toward possessing without articulating it, is one of recognizing that everything is an example of perfection, and hence of beauty, and the hard work is not in discerning value by comparison with other things of the same class, but in being able to recognize, fully, the beauty of anything, in and of itself. So, a splotch of whitening bird shit on the sidewalk is beautiful in and of itself, though of course it is in a different class of things from a painting, or a symphony, or a skyscraper, or genetically modified seeds. I include the last because there are a whole class of things that I want…
Read more

Moving

Hey hey, new(ish) book of poetry by me available! No Tribe, No Tribute poems by Marc Pietrzykowski Print: $13. 82 pages. ISBN-13: 978-1479212637 ISBN-10: 1479212636 I am about to start moving this blog, the Pski’s Porch site, and also my music sites to Rebelmouse, in order to spend less time dodging spam and phishing posts. If you’ve never tried to host a website, you’d be surprised how many people think posting “Hey, love your site! I’ll be sure to share it with all my friends” and then linking it to “bigtit.cialis.xxxcom” will somehow work. I guess it must. So, sometime in the next few weeks, on to Rebelmouse. Cds listened to (I can see the end. The last 2-300 or so are stretched out before me…): 672) The Staple Singers: Collector’s Edition: 673) Souad Massi: Deb; 674) Iggy Pop: Nude and Rude; 675) Rosemary Clooney: Sentimental Journey; 676) Michelle Shocked: Captain Swing (so sad, watching folks go mad); 677) Me’shell Ndegeocello: Plantation Lullabies; 678) The Pogues: Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash; 679) Taraf de Haidouks: Taraf de Haidouks; 680) Gogol Bordello vs. Tamir Muskat: J.U.F.; 681) Joan Armatrading: Me Myself I; 682) Mum: finally we are no one; 683) Bascom…
Read more