Goodbye Bowerbird Intelligentleman

He was part of both the poetry slam and “regular” poetry communities.  I came onto the scene a bit too late to see him at his most active, but I experienced his work on a handful of occasions.  Most times, he would turn up at readings just  to watch and observe the features and open mic list.

And he certainly could speak his mind about the foibles and unspoken rules—privately offering counsel (which I may not have thought through enough) about when to say something and when prudent restraint was more apropos.

We fell out eventually and I only learned of  his passing earlier today via Rev. Dave Wheeler (best known to me for his work with the Midnight Special bookstore and the early years of the Rapp Saloon reading).

Here are some nuggets of Bowerbird calling it as he saw it:

"...if you want to get noticed by the [community’s] in-crowd",

start taking workshops from some of them and kiss their ass.

oh yeah, you'll have to sever your ties with the "crap" poets too.

after a few years of that, they will start throwing you crumbs.

after years of _that_, you might make as much money as them.

it might sound crass, but there is no other way they'll notice you."

listserves are an "intelligentle" many-to-many communication,
because they enable discussion that can be full and thoughtful,
where many sides are able to speak to any and all of the issues,
but where any of the participants can opt out when they choose,
and all they have to do is use the "delete" key on their keyboard.
so any conflict isn't "in your face" unless you _want_ it to be...

***

but hey, don't interpret what i'm saying as "poets are not mean".
take it from me, poets can be _plenty_ vicious. _unspeakably._
and -- considering the size of the usual stakes -- unnecessarily.
but, like most backstabbing out in the real world, that happens
in secret, not right out in the open, like on the public listserves.
compared to that sneaky underhanded shit, what you see here is
mostly silly and laughable and childish...

i see from an e-mail in my in-box 
that venue hosts are being called
"the unsung heroes" of the scene...

yes, hosts do a lot of work, it's true.
and if you've never done it yourself,
you'll likely underestimate, by half,
the amount of hassle that it can be,
constantly dealing with a bunch of
ego-maniacs who want the stage...

but let's look at the other side too...

first, producing gives you a huge boost
in visibility, and perceived "importance",
not to mention stage-time of your own,
and without having to fight anyone for it.

second, the ability to _book_others_
means that you have "a favor to trade",
and the favor-trading is very obvious...

indeed, when deserving poets come to me and
ask how they can get more feature invitations,
i regularly give them two recommendations:
1. just plain ask, and several will follow, and
2. start up your own series and book hosts,
as that's a sure way to get return bookings.

so let's not pretend that hosting is selfless.
it cuts both ways.

how these competing factors "balance"
is up to each one of us to decide, but
i think the fact that there is no shortage
of poetry series -- each with a host --
indicates how most poets weigh it out.

if hosts were really "the unsung heroes",
there wouldn't be so darn many of 'em,
because poets are _not_ very altruistic,
as anyone with experience will tell you.
(and hosts will be the first to verify that.)

no, where we have a clear _shortage_
is with the number of poets who are
willing to come to a show and _listen_,
without a strong ego-need for the stage.
_that_ is how selflessness reveals itself...

so if you're looking for "unsung heroes"
in _this_ scene, look for _those_ people.
(and hey, best of luck on finding any...)

as it is, any events that "host the hosts"
or "honor the poetry series in our scene"
looks like just another mutual back-pat
in the perpetual circle-jerk of our scene
from the perspective of _this_ observer...

-bowerbird

Revised: Casting an imaginary Judd Apatow L.A. poetry comedy set in early 2000s.

 Meant to be whimsical-spirited: 

Brendan Constantine-Paul Rudd 

Rick Lupert-Will Forte

Peggy Dobreer-Leslie Mann 

Kate Gale-Amy Schumer 

G. Murray Thomas-Loudon Wainwright III 

Raindog-Nick Nolte 

Bowerbird-Zach Galifianakis

Jim Doane-Will Ferrell

Leigh White-Alison Brie 

Derrick Brown-Jim Parsons 

Laurel Ann Bogen-Kathy Bates 

Michael Datcher-Giancarlo Esposito 

Suzanne Lummis-Lynn Herring 

Feel free to add actors and poetry personae to this list, but try to include as many people from the Apatow repertory as possible.

I remember Victor Infante all too well.

 He’s back!  He has a new book he’s reading from tonight at a venue in Westchester (West L.A. suburb near LAX) with wife and chosen colleague friends.  And if you’re an emerging poet who tries to gain his favor, perhaps he’ll take a genuine interest in you and your work.

Or, if you try to gain his favor by giving him your chapbook for feedback and hear nothing and call him on it (a general no-no in the literary aspirant community), you might get a reply like this one: 

First off, I'm sorry I called you a jerk. I was out of line, and for that, I genuinely apologize. On the other hand, I'm not going to apologize for not paying more attention to you, and it's glaringly obvious that's what this little tantrum has been about. [prominent poet, now MIA from the scene] didn't pay attention to you. I didn't pay attention to you. Wah, wah, wah.Grow up, Terry. If you've got problems with the poetry scene, do something about it. Start your own readings, start a festival. Publish a journal or Web zine. Whatever, but stop acting like a baby because you don't get the attention you deserve and others do. You're right, it's not a level playing field, and you don't get points for just being there. You've actually got to do something well. Writing well would be a start. I DO remember your chapbook. I still have it, in the piles of several hundred that I dutifully carried with me cross-country when I moved. Terry, it was dull. Very dull. Not bad, but there was little of interest going on there. I don't recall if I had read it yet when I saw you in Redondo, but even if I had, I doubt I would have said much. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry, it bored me to tears." But as I recall, it took me awhile to get around to it, because, even now, I get a ton of chapbooks very month. I've not thrown one away, and I try to read them all, but no, I can't review them, and I really had nothing consequential to say about it, for good or bad. As to my "wisdom would be something of value," Whatever. I don't recall volunteering to be your mentor, and while I've taught poetry in high schools and colleges, I don't recall you being in any of my classes. The sad fact is, Terry, I thought you were a nice guy,and always tried to be friendly to you, but no, I didn't care much for your writing. Would you have preferred that I said that? I can't see what good that would have done. It's not like I walked out of the room when you were on the microphone. Maybe you've gotten better, I don't know.You can have whatever opinions you want, Terry, and you can have whatever opinions you want about me, but the fact is, you're not the one out there doing the work, and if you've made any serious effort to BE the one out there doing the work, I'm sorry, but I don't recall it.

New Poem: WHEN THERE WERE GOOD ONES

 read this phrase from a living poet eulogizing a deceased poet:

 went to local poetry readings when there were good ones

 >

 I knew the deceased poet and he was kind to me

 even though I was nowhere close to his level of accomplishment 

 and I knew he wouldn’t write a sentence eulogizing someone

 with the phrase I quoted from the Eminent Living Poet

 >

 to me, all the local readings I attended were good ones

 you learn from the best, the mid-level and the worst

 and there are talks to talk and walks to walk

 even if you choose to talk and walk

 without a feverish despair for what may be fickle acceptance 

 

That feeling of helplessness

It’s a Saturday afternoon.  You’re abiding by the new normal of staying home and flattening the infection curve.  You turn on an online telethon to bring money into the Los Angeles Covid-19 fund.

And then you see Rick Lupert—a poet who has dealt out professional and personal discomfort to you.

You know how that went—he’s generally acclaimed in a certain subculture and is being seen today by more people than, say, a typical Cobalt Cafe reading.  By being critical of him, you were seen as a sorehead and a loser.

So there’s a feeling of wanting to find the nearest paper bag and hyperventilate into it.  Plus brooding over mistakes I made and unproductive thoughts.

In any event, it’s  better to stay home (except for trips to supermarket/pharmacy), not infect or be infected and donate to charities and businesses which need cash infusions to pay employees.

That’s all I can do in the present and future.

Better than to muse about who prospers and who doesn’t.

One bright shining moment: a Pushcart Prize nomination.

Thanks so much to Marie Lecrivain and the staff of POETIC DIVERSITY for making this possible.  To be nominated is a win in itself; here’s a link to the honored poem:
https://www.poeticdiversity.org/main/poems-cp.php?recordID=2592&date=2019-11-01

Revised Poem: WRITING STAR 2019

I don’t want to go to parties.

I don’t want to drink so much

that I have to pull my car over

and vomit at least twice on my way home

I don’t want to approach Famous Authors-

only to have them ask me who I am

and leave me cold and unappreciated

as they search for someone more Important

I don’t want to be a Writing Star

I don’t feel like stressing out

and having acid reflux

over whether or not

I’ve been properly reverent

to Important local poets

I don’t feel like telling someone 

their work won’t amount to much

unless it’s published by a Real Publisher

I don't want to be regarded as a bad person

if I don't attend a memorial for a poet

who told me my death couldn't come soon enough

I don't want to be the kind of Writing Star he was

Pull the ripcord

Keep out of sight

Read a few good poetry books

Give away the ones I once thought I had to have

To make nice with people who didn't care

Be content with supporting others from afar

Cured of the egomaniacal disease caused by

Wanting to be a Writing Star

Revised Older Poem: DOWNTOWN L.A. AUGUST 14, 2011

ate a wonderful chopped vegetable salad

with ten-dollar grilled salmon on top

at a new restaurant

inhabiting an old building

at the corner of 4th and Main Street

after dessert, descended a long flight of stairs

to use the men's room

and saw pictures of the landmarks

of an earlier Los Angeles

(Bunker Hill, the original Pershing Square)

altered or deleted by Progress

>

drove to Disney Hall

got lost trying to find REDCAT,

noticed young people

wanting to be famous actors or models

using the upstairs amphitheatre for a photo shoot--

and I wondered if the great Frank Gehry

would mind his grand silver creation

used as a backdrop for headshots

Revised Older Poem: CARNIVAL

Poem originally written circa 2004 about 1999-2001.  Trimmed slightly from the earlier version--still a subjective (and opinionated) take on a bygone era in Southern California poetry.

CARNIVAL

ONE

In a cafe's back room filled with 50 people,

the Host takes the stage.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME POETRY?

he calls out.

The audience applauds.

In the prestigious first half, there’s a mixture of storytelling,

slam poetry and political sloganeering.

Applause is a guarantee if you read a poem with

the phrase “Free Mumia”.

The Host occasionally contributes topical verse

or personal reminiscence.

When the Host is through with a poem,

he tosses it to the stage floor with a flourish.

The audience-mostly poets-

either listen with rapt attention

or scribble spontaneous verse

into their notebooks

in hopes that they can surpass

what they’re hearing

when it’s their turn on-mike.

Then the Host shouts

IT’S FEATURE TIME!

The features are either well-known poets from the city

(occasionally touring bards from out-of-state)

or  the Lucky Few the Host chooses to groom.

Most of those Lucky Few tend to either be female

or share the Host’s political views.

The feature reads for twenty to twenty-five minutes.

Then the Host passes the hat

to ensure the feature gets paid for his/her work.

During intermission, some audience members leave.

A few people buy chapbooks from the feature.

Other poets head out front to pay homage to certain

Important people who host at venues in or outside the city.

TWO

The remainder of the audience returns.

The Co-Host takes over

since the Host has gone home

to work on a poetry project of his own.

Halfway through the second half,

it’s my turn to read a poem.

I read a poem about office life.

It gets laughter and applause.

One time, a poet close to the Host

tells me I’m good and worthy of a feature.

He says he’ll put in a kind word for me.

I never hear anything from the Host.

I say “Hello” when I see him.

And I know he’s heard my work.

Perhaps I’m not reverent enough towards him.

Or maybe I need to quit being funny

and write a poem with the phrase “Free Mumia”.

At 11:30 p.m., the last poet reads.

The night is over.

I give a poet favored by the Host a ride home.

During the ride, the poet nervously hopes

the Host will write a blurb for the poet’s

new chapbook.

And, against my better instincts, I tell the poet

I’m willing to write an e-mail to the Host

on his behalf.

The Host’s Tuesday night reading is the hottest

place to be in the City’s Poetry Community.

And I do want to be a part of it-

even if I’m never asked to read in the first half.

Revised Older Poem: FOR POET ANONYMOUS

“It’s better to be king for a night

than schmuck for a lifetime.”—

line written by Paul D. Zimmerman

for Martin Scorsese’s  THE KING OF COMEDY

Once you had time for nobodies like me.

Hell, I even liked/respected you enough to 

give you a lift in downtown Austin 

when we were both participants in

a poetry festival eighteen years ago.

But you wanted to be appreciated by the right people.

And I went through a phase in my life

where I was too easily angered by

the right people openly despising the wrong people 

instead of realizing what I couldn't change

and what others didn't want to change--

and going about my business.

So I became enraged at you in a public place

when you were surrounded by the people

you never wanted to be separated from.

And I--

in just over a minute--

built a wall between us

far too high to ever be breached.

Eventually, I stopped trying to

either beg for a clean slate

or continue being frustrated

over your relentless resolve

to keep miscreants like me

out of future poetry conversations.

I acknowledge I hurt you
with my belligerence and wrath.

And all I can do now 

is to write this poem

from permanent exile

and keep going about my business.

Sharing some bad reviews.

"It's truly hard to tell, in a McCarthy performance, where the
incohate rant stops and the poetry begins. And it's hard to
find the music, the poetic craft, on the page of one of his
chapbooks, either."--Richard Beban
“Aside from the occasional stabs at assonance and consonance
picked up and dropped so quickly they make me think they
were the kind of random typing accidents that happen
when monkeys try Shakespeare, show me the poetry in this piece"—
Richard Beban on one of my poems.

No further comment on the above.

New Poem: WHAT THE EGO WEIGHS

according to the egotist,
it's as light as a feather
from the point of view
of the egotist's victim,
it's a giant, intended as
soul crushing boulder
the egotist heaves
in hopes the victim,
as he tries to write his way
back to daylight,
will abandon all aspiration
and die alongside the skeletons
of practitioners of verse
the egotist feared would become
eventual competition
if given encouragement
and true consideration

New Poem: ROLL AWAY THE STONE

Sisyphus was often admonished
for not knowing
and not learning what good was
and the literary stone
rolled over him numerous times
because he didn't follow the approved method
of pushing it up the hill
and locking it firmly
in its ornate display case

Eventually. the stone rolled on top of Sisyphus
and an eminent person in the crowd cried out
YOUR DEATH CAN'T COME SOON ENOUGH
causing the crowd to grow silent and back away
from Sisyphus the impulsive apostate
who couldn't roll the literary stone just right

Sisyphus eventually accepted
the verdict of the crowd
cued by eminent person's disgust:
he was unclean,
donned the garments of a leper,
and greatly reduced his public profile

When eminent person climbed
to Mount Olympus and never returned,
Sisyphus heard the crowd's lamentations,
acknowledged eminent person's kindness to others,
and looked into a mirror free of distortion

He no longer saw uncleanliness
or disfiguring scars
caused by the stone's weight

Too many years had passed
a form of clarity arrived
Sisyphus realized he didn't have to push
the same stone up the same hill
as everyone else

Now, he was free

Ready to experience actual sunlight
instead of artificial darkness

Revised Older Poem: WHAT IS HELL?

WHAT IS HELL?

  

is Hell a place

like a shopping mall food court

where almost everything is closed

and you’re the only one

informally dining there

the elevators don’t work

the escalator is broken

and you can’t leave the mall

no matter how much you want to

or is it a bookstore

where you’re watching

an egocentric literary sensation

standing on a chair

and saying in body language

with volume turned up to 12:

YOU’RE NOT ME

AND YOU NEVER WILL BE

and you can’t leave the store

no matter how much you want to

or is Hell

that part of one’s mind replaying

this cognitive distortion mantra:

if it happened Before,

it will happen Once More,

and you can’t stop dwelling

on sins of the long-distant past

or imagine a less calamitous future

and you can’t leave your house

no matter how much you want to

Poem ODE TO A DEAD POETRY VENUE

The Midnight Special bookstore
Shined its light on me
By way of a calendar listing
In the back pages
Of a free poetry magazine
So I drove through Friday night El Niño rain
Walked into the back room
And stood because all folding chairs were filled
Everyone actually listened to everyone else
>
It was the best possible first time
And I kept returning for two years:
Watching, learning, workshopping
Glad to find somewhere welcoming
Until changes were made,
Hosts were fired from volunteer positions,
Store owners wanted to be right all the time
>
The Midnight Special wasn’t immune
From hubris and personal/poetic politics
And I confronted that truth several times
At different venues as years and decades disappeared
And good memories turned sentimental ,
Painful ones eroding into resignation and acceptance

Left behind by Beyond Baroque.

Reposting this from Facebook:
Received a Beyond Baroque fundraising letter which speaks of "the spirit of openness and rebellion inherent in literature and art." Except for the HOLLYWOOD POETRY book, I noticed last spring that my chapbooks were removed from the bookstore (ironic since Scott Wannberg, for whom the store is named, supported poets of all stripes when he worked at Duttons Brentwood). Presumably, my earlier DIY work needed to make way for more saleable exemplars of openness and rebellion. I asked for the chapbooks (excepting those in the BB archives) to be returned; this didn't happen. I do appreciate the times I have attended readings and participated in the past--and how hard people work to continue its existence. But I feel distanced from its current programmng and governing philosophies, and have no further desire to donate.

One more post about poetry rejections.

Names omitted here, primarily to stress the universality of these incidents happening to other poets/writers in their communities.

Years ago, I asked [poet/publisher] about publishing HOLLYWOOD POETRY. It wasn't a fit for her then-imprint--so it would have been given a different one, which meant it was only a novelty item at best. I let the matter drop and for the most part, with a couple of exceptions involving sincere support, things stayed superficially pleasant, I learned I wasn't on the same plane with the poets she coveted and truly cared about. Maybe this wouldn't have hurt so much if she hadn't called me a "fine poet" previously.

Last spring, I blocked [poet/proud MFA graduate/poetry zine editor] from Facebook after being rejected for [Los Angeles literary site].  Essentially, the omitted person was a poetry editor in name only for the site with the real decisions being made by its editor-in-chief--Mr. Omission was there to drum up a lot of people (including the core members of his reading) to send in submissions .  Whether right or wrong, I believe that--after years of his ostensible support--I'm now someone who can't "fit.".

What I learned again: poetry is another strain of show business insincerity: people like what you do until they gather enough stature to decide you don't fit--and they won't stand by your art because they want to impress others. Sure, they may be superficially pleasant, but otherwise, that's all. Thanks to [omitted] for making this clear to me.

Quotation from Chairman Murray.

The POETIX website is now a ghost ship suspended in cyberspace, but it exists to perhaps give future generations some understanding of how the Los Angeles poetry community wanted to present itself within and without its local/regional sphere.

In one of G. Murray Thomas's last reviews, he wrote this manifesto--yet another reiteration of the old "layers of meaning" (i.e. make it opaque and/or amorphous) canard:
In my opinion, all poetry (all art, in fact) needs to be open to interpretation. That is how we bring our own experiences to the poetry, and engage with it emotionally as well as intellectually.

The above is apparently preferable to understanding the poet's experiences and intent inherent in the poem he/she has written.

Someone else complains about the Guardians of the SoCal Poetry/Literary Galaxy.

Here's Chiwan Choi in CULTURAL WEEKLY:
http://www.culturalweekly.com/whiteness-isnt-intellectualism-whiteness-isnt-indigenous-whiteness-isnt-anything/#.WEsyaExV32Q.twitter

Guessing a lot of the people Mr. Choi writes about will deny that race enters into decisions to hand out gilded passwords to the exclusive club.  But, at the very least, they have notions of class and their version of decorum as ways to limit the diversity of literary voices.

When I found out I didn't belong in a certain room.

Years ago, I went to one of those "how to submit to journals/litmags and get published" get-togethers at Beyond Baroque.

A then-well-known poet named Michelle Ben-Hur, when it was her turn to dispense advice, said something like this:
If you think of poetry as a hobby, then YOU DO NOT BELONG IN THIS ROOM!  (all-caps accurate since her voice got quite loud at that point)

Maybe I should have left the room at that point, since it was becoming clear that I wasn't going to qualify as an academia-friendly poet.   And, therefore, I really didn't belong in the room as defined by Ms. Ben-Hur.

But I wanted to fit in as best as I could--and there was at least one person sitting at the publishing  table who genuinely liked the poems I wrote in that period.

Fast forward to over a decade and a half later, where some of the then-SoCal-based poets/editors have moved to other cities in California--though the bulk of their litmags survive.

Coda: On a recent visit to Beyond Baroque, I discovered that the chapbooks I left there on consignment over the years have disappeared (doubting they were sold like hot cakes)--leaving just two copies of HOLLYWOOD POETRY: 2001-2013, which were apparently spared since they are Real Books instead of DYI.

Obviously, an example of the "survival of the fittest" ethic espoused at that long-ago seminar.