MY GYPSY CARAVAN.

somethings just stay the same sometimes things just stay the same.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

THE PHYSICAL POETS HOME LIBRARY / VOLUME 4.


"Each volume of this .pdf journal focuses on a group of writers whose poetic practices are in conversation with each other's. Each volume is edited by the poets featured."

Volume 4: [Extended Techniques] / Edited by Ed Hopely

w/ Hillary Juster, J. Gordon Faylor, Diana Hamilton, Jarrod Fowler, Ariele Affigne, Robert Fitterman, Andy Martrich, Edward Hopely, Sara Wintz, Patrick Lovelace, Nicole Wallace, Kareem Estefan, Lonely Christopher, AMJ Crawford, Josef Kaplan

Also -- all previous volumes (1-3) are now available in .pdf at lilnorton.com


SOME NEW ONES.

I.



II.




Wednesday, March 24, 2010

A SERVICE & SOCIAL FOR THE RELEASE OF "WHITE FLOWERS" --



FRIDAY, APRIL 2ND / 8PM
100 N. 3RD ST.
BROOKLYN


GOOD FRIDAY / BLACK FRIDAY --

A RELEASE FOR “WHITE FLOWERS” – A POTPOURRI OF PAINTED POEMS & VARIATIONS ON SOME THEMES BY NICOLE WALLACE.

LIKE THE STOCKMARKET’S BLACK CRASHES & A GOOD FRIDAY LIKE THE DAY LINCOLN WAS BITTEN BY A BULLET WHILE WATCHING A GOOD OLD PLAY -- BRING YOUR MUSLIN, BRING YOUR CRAPE, BRING YOUR BURLAP & YOUR CRATE – THAT’S IT & THAT’S ALL. WINE & OTHER REFRESHING MERRIMENTS PROVIDED, OF COURSE.

COME BY & PICK UP AN ENVELOPE OF "WHITE FLOWERS" & GET A GLASS FULL --

LOVE,
NICOLE.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Monday, April 6, 2009

SOME REAL GOOD WOMEN-FOLK & A SONG / PART #2.

                     
                       

MISS KANE. 
(MISS MCGREW, NAN.)


                       

MISS ETTING.


                       

& MISS CONNEE, MISS VET & MISS MARTHA.
(THE BOSWELL SISTERS)


Monday, February 23, 2009

HERE YE HERE YE.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
COMPLIMENTS OF D.W. GRIFFITH

---

TWO POEMS
COMPLIMENTS OF NICOLE WALLACE


MR. LINCOLN, COME GET YOUR SUPPER.

my man wears his top hats tall 
smart as pepper & pretty too 
would run away on his weddin’ day
then hold his bride tight & sigh
oh my!
feels like a boy who stubbed his toe
hurt too bad to make ‘im laugh 
but he’s jest too big to cry 
he says, it's not mr. president to you
i've hung my hat up 'til they can knock it down
from now on 
from now on 
from now on. 



IM WORRIED, MARY.

but we used to be able to sleep in springfield
come to bed now I said to come now so come now
mary, i’ve got it if we ever sleep again & again
as earth as it is in heaven he beckoned
to my wife, meet mister general grant 
& want more servants & what’s all this smoke 
open a window and win this war already
(bugle call)

Friday, January 30, 2009

Thursday, January 29, 2009

TOO MANY MEN FOR ONE SHOE SET.


there is too much time in extended adolescence. not enough glass in the whiskey & money on credit. i can do things you do better in five minutes or under. & while sitting in a broke chair in a disheveled corner it's easy. sitting on my feet under the kitchen counter eating garbage is easy too. there are only one or two things worth listening to when you are talking especially. when i met him the first time he kept looking at me like drinking from plastic cups in the flicker of track lighting. it just felt right i suppose. i wonder if you are drunk somewhere in williamsburg living on shiny linoleum flooring and refinished marble counter tops. your parents paid for those windows you know and all those things that make it seem like you did it all yourself. you wouldn't fool me would ya? annette hanshaw once asked that in a song & i thought about the time that you played ragtime like buster keaton or saturday mornings. you always were wearing that peach foundation & smearing it on your white button up shirts. it was funny when i mistook it for you finding luck with a lady. you didn't think so. once i walked past your apartment looking for you but i gave up for a cigarette & some opium. you were just too easy to get when times were hard like that. now let's sing another song boys so a real man can show you how to pretend: 


- or - 

- or - 


typically & etc.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

SOME REAL GOOD WOMEN-FOLK & A SONG / PART #1.



MISS BESSIE.



MISS MONTANA.



MISS HANSHAW. 



& SOME BANJO-PICKERS.




Monday, January 19, 2009

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

LIKE A GIRL IN A BOOK.



SHE DON'T HAVE TO WEAR RATS IN HER HAIR.


Friday, November 7, 2008

UNSEASONABLY SO.


a hot kind of wind blows leaves
plastic bags stuck in branches
against the window he thought were just
some kind of bad dream, in the first place.

i talked to him on the telephone
on my day off, i listened to the receiver
listen to your breathing it said
notice it gets higher when
you move your tongue, the pitch
on the harp the blues hummed
the lowest note, a reed numbered one.

i thought of how easy it would be
it’s just so easy i tell them
we don’t spend much time together
but i still wake up late, lose my books
spend all my time twiddling my strums
it’s pretty much the same as always, they ask.

along sixth street his notebook, a song book open
the pages turning and my telephone ringing
a conscience ignored, like one of his lines
in the pauses i was counting the encounters
before they had time to hatch he lost
but then again, nobody’s won.

the same kind of hot wind blows in
through the window, the plastic bags
are leaves, the tree branches fall
we got here, i thought then
in the first place, this is why we are.





SOME KIND OF DISAPPEARING ACT.





TOO BAD, MEPHISTOPHELES.




DOWN THE RABIT-HOLE.




NOT QUITE THE ENGLISH THRONE.

Friday, October 31, 2008

STEP RIGHT UP...




'CAUSE THE DUMB ONES KNOW HOW TO MAKE LOVE.



Friday, October 17, 2008

THE GREATEST DEPRESSION.



OH BOY!




BRING YOUR TANGLED UP OLD SCRAP METAL, HEAVY GREEN GLASS BOTTLES, CRUMBLIN' WINE CORKS FOR CORKING, ONE WHEELBARROW, HORSE TROUGH, MOONSHININ' BARREL, ONE MUSIC RIPPLIN' SAW FOR SAWING, YOUR WIFE & YOUR WIDOW AND A TWENTY-TWO FOR GOOD MEASURE. WE'RE GONNA COOK THIS ONE UP ALRIGHT. 




ALCOHOLIQUE.  




WOULDN'T IT BE BETTER TO ----- ?




VERMOUTH, VIN, KIRSCH, SCHNAPPS, BIERE
&
ABSINTHE AT THE GUILLOTINE. 




BOOTLEG/PEGLEG.


Thursday, May 8, 2008

TOO MANY ASHBOOKS AND MATCHTRAYS.

There is a very charming section, featured on the last few pages of Ed Sanders’s 1962 issues of his mimeographed magazine Fuck You/ A Magazine of the Arts, written by poet Nelson Barr called “A Bouquet of Fuck You’s.” Barr takes the responsibility of granting his various “Fuck You’s” to certain people within the Lower East Side/East Village poetry community, along with some other public figures and government officials.

ISSUE #1: “The following is a list of Fuck-You’s to all and sundry—
…Fuck you Jean Morton- Large nosed/bullshitter searching for order in chaos
[…] Fuck you to Ed Sanders- May Crotch- / Lake stomp him out of his faggot mind.”

Others included, but unquoted, were: Charlie Butterflusch, Kathy Gesner & Mark Samara.

& then followed by an “Editor’s Note” By Ed Sanders:“I agree. All pacifists should be exposed!”

ISSUE #2: “Offering #2” –“Fuck You’s” to: N.Y Police Department, Nelson Rockefeller, N.Y Daily News & Moise Ishombe.

ISSUE #3: -“Fuck You’s” to: “Art Harvey, com-symps & sheis-kopfen, Georgie Lincoln Rockwell & all his dirty wee nazis, nignogs one and all.”

& then followed by an “Editor’s Note” by Ed Sanders: “**NIG-NOG IS A TERM COINED ON THE NASHVILLE-WASHINGTON WALK FOR PEACE. HAS WIDE MEANING TO COVER ALL COM-SYMPS, FOOLS, ORGANIZED COWARDS, SELL OUTS, ASSKISSERS, IDIOITS, POLITICIANS, POWER-HUNGRY PACIFICCTS, ETC. ETC.”

ISSUE # 4: “Offering #4” –this time- “Fuck You’s” to: Hollywood, YAF, the City Fathers of Albany G.A., the American Nationalists.


--yeah, I’ve been doing some kind of research in some archives. so what?

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

HENRY JAMES WAS A PERVERT.


She sits at a wooden sewing table, a small typing desk, a good size for a room so small. It’s late and stretching into the smaller hours. The clock's hung on the wall behind her, but she doesn’t look back.  On the quilt-mess of a bed, the cat sleeps. His ear turned slightly towards her,  waiting for the aggravating tune-hum of “School Days” to stop. Up against the wall, opposite of the door, a thin rust colored scarf  covers a board laid across the desk's top where a sewing machine used to fold in. Atop of it, a single-bulb lamp glows next to a dim screen, half blank and half filled with paragraphed words. To her right, a white wooden bookshelf rests heavy on dusty floorboards. She lights a small candle with a single match. Next to it, an old jam jar filled with pens, some pencils and one felt-tipped marker refracts the small flame in flickers and flashes. She thinks aloud, as so only she thinks she can hear herself, “Isn't this just terribly romantic.” On the cold keys of a black 1947 Remington-Rand, her hands hit the  raised white letters. One at a time, return the carriage, roll out the sheets, in a windowless, soap-box sized bedroom, some where in Brooklyn at the beginning of May.