YES, MAYBE YOU'RE NOT A LEFTIST.

Are you left-brine or right-brine dominant? It would depend upon which ocean you await. The Atlantic always approaches shore from right to left whereas the Pacific always approaches shore from left to right. Oceans force you to adopt the same stance, no matter how you might strive to politicize an issue. Our centrists must reside in the middle of the continent—they count both the artist and the analyst among their ranks. An apple, can the centrists paint, a standard deviation, can the centrists compute. Would you apply Right Guard to your right-side armpit, or in general, to conservative body odor? Oh, would there be Left Guard for the left-side armpit or for the perspiration of liberals, who continue to perspire, apparently, without remediation. Personally, I blame this problem on our two-armpit system. Not that a third armpit could stagger the current political impasse, except maybe in a matted hair environment, where an alternative might break the dreadlocks. Do you think that the famous French bell-ringer drives the Hatchback of Notre Dame? Maybe he prefers to ride the Quasi-Moto-Cycle. In France, the Atlantic always approaches shore from left to right, forcing citizens to be right-brine dominant, les droitiers. There, the donkey brays, the chefs braise, the Frenchies tilt their berets.

L=A=N=G=U=I=S=H POETRY.

If you can’t pay in dollars, then you might as well pay in pathos.

They’ll take just about any currency down at the Five & Paradigm.

So, a guy walks into a bar along with a huge growling grizzly, and the maître d hollers, “Oh my god! Table for two?”, and the guy replies: “Thanks. I know this grizzly situation may be difficult—bear with me!”

Meanwhile, the insect had been dead for such a long time, rigor mantis had set-in, but more than that, it’d gotten fashionable to be a dead insect, it was de rigueur mantis.

I like to sit in the portion of the aircraft where ordinary passengers receive self-help lectures, you know, motivational coach.

A fellow once sat next to me in motivational coach, a famous baseball slugger traveling to attend a Jewish girl’s coming of age ceremony.

He would be, in fact, Casey at the Bat Mitzvah.

How to explain, but the animated character suffered a ritual humiliation at the hands of an angry mob, in the new moving picture, Avatar and Feather.

The village crier scrambled into the town square in a state of alarm: “The Scot is dead”, he shouted, “the Scot is dead.”

“Oh no!” someone called back, “how’d he die?

“He was kilt!”

In an unrelated development, an Irish pop-rock band had to fill out so much American employment paperwork, they changed their name to W2.

“No more leads”, lamented the police detectives, as they chowed-down some lunch at a Mexican restaurant.

“Yep”, they lamented, “it’s a real cold case-a-dilla.”

THE WORDS AMIDST THE MUSIC: LOST CIVILIZATIONS + DUO EXCHANGE RENEW THE RUCKUS.

Lost Civilizations, from left to right: Leah Gage, 

Mike Sebastian, Patrick Whitehead, and Ted Zook

I hope that listeners will pardon my loud “Oi! Oi!” at the beginning of the first set, but I borrowed that riff from the Sleaford Mods song, “Middlemen”, in order to quieten our garrulous audience at the Black Squirrel, November 15, 2015. A fabulous renewal of the Lost Civilizations + Duo Exchange collaboration ensued. For each gathering, Rod Smith and I provide the words (the “Duo Exchange”) amidst the music, and we always label the most recent outing “the best”, this one without hesitation. Connoisseurs of our collaboration may recall that we script nothing in advance. The music as well as the poems find their own order as the event flows forward.

For a free listen of the first set (39 minutes) click [HERE]

For a free listen of the second set (33 minutes) click [HERE]

Ted Zook (basscello) and Mike Sebastian (saxophones) form the core of the Lost Civilizations Experimental Music Project, to which they invite guest musicians. On this night, Leah Gage sat-in on drums, and Patrick Whitehead joined on trumpet and flugelhorn, making us a six-member outfit. Rod and I attempt to build a city—many voices and humors—every time Duo Exchange sets out, and yet, no matter how much we may anticipate the evening’s trajectory, the music inspires us not only for its abiding quality, but also for the many surprising ways in which the musicians might push, embolden, and shape our performance. 

At times, we might’ve noted the manipulation of silence and the occupation of part-spaces. At other times, we might’ve caught the discordant caucusing in advance of one instrument prevailing. The Big Sound might’ve staggered us, the declarations of agreement that fronted and trailed synthesis. Did Lost Civilizations swing? Oh yeah, I think so. The musicians answered questions—with brassy, reedy, thumping, sawing language—in need of responses, only we had no knowledge of these questions before the performance began. We broke the surface of the evening, vastly replenished.

Rod Smith (left) and the blogger as Duo Exchange

Lost Civilizations reminds us, aptly, that counter-culture hasn’t yet suffered permanent misplacement, and that art, if untethered, represents our best avenue for salvation. Two writers had to fit together, and four musicians had to fit together, and six people had to fit together, in music and verse, and we did, fit. If you attended the show, if you listened to one or both sets, if you read this little review, thanks, and on behalf of Lost Civilizations and Duo Exchange, in the spirit of Duke Ellington, we love you M-a-a-a-dly!

COMPLAINT WEEK 2015 #5 OF 5: PEOPLE WHO DON’T LISTEN TO MUSIC.

People who don’t listen to music park their cars in front of fire hydrants. People who don’t listen to music develop repetitive stress disorders such as Dyspeptic Political Identity. People who don’t listen to music lament the idle swells of “steely gray clouds” dimming the north-northwest. They wander through the lobby in search of the lobby. They perch like slumbering owls, one-legged, on marble staircases. They marvel at the defunct telephone booth, the handset dangling off the hook, the dial-tone expired. People who don’t listen to music struggle at the vending machine, their currency upside down, their intended treat manacled by the tight coil of the apparatus. People who don’t listen to music suck imported, boutique plum pits. People who don’t listen to music scoff at the buttered onion! They attend registration drives in circular parks but withdraw after discovering that they won’t receive a gift, such as a four-slice toaster or a festive doilies four-pack. They gnaw on the principles of other generations even as the principles of other generations gnaw on them, “gnaw, man”, says a jokester from a jokester generation, but the wordplay carouses briefly, glancing off a plate-glass window. They monitor their carotid arteries during periods of inactivity, often with concerning results, such as mule-kick pulses or blender-on-pulse, pulses. People who don’t listen to music listen to people who don’t listen to music. They clasp their hands like “hurrahs”, only they won’t raise these “hurrahs” over their heads, and their hands, unclasping, approximate the weary countries of sequestration.

                                                                                                                   

complaint week 2015 editorial schedule:

October 26: The Democrat Machine

October 27: Artists and Writers Who Say “My Work”

October 28: GWU Fires Adjunct Creative Writing Faculty

October 29: Washington, D.C. Manchester City Bros

October 30: People Who Don't Listen to Music

COMPLAINT WEEK 2015 #4 OF 5: WASHINGTON, D.C. MANCHESTER CITY BROS.

I’m not writing about reasonable or even borderline Manchester City Football Club supporters: they love their club, more power to them. No, I refer to The Washington, D.C. Bros, the ones who’re fond of great hand-clapping songs about Wilfried Bony, for instance, as if MCFC fully mentored the Côte d’Ivoire forward, rather than purchasing him for a whopping sum from Swansea. The same Bros make loud baby-crying noises when an opposing player has been fouled and hurt by a City player, and by this, I mean, “WAAAAAA!”, throughout the game, “WAAAAAA!”, go The MCFC Washington, D.C. Bros. If you represent a smaller club, if you venture into their lair at an establishment known as Lucky Bar in Dupont Circle, then you’ll be outnumbered by The Bros 50 to 1, you’ll be yelled at from the comfort zone of their vastly superior numerical advantage. “WAAAAAA!” go The Bros, “Wilfried Bony! Wilfried Bony!”, they sing, clapping tightly. They purchase replica English breakfast and replica beer, these Bros, they seem to hold jobs. One imagines them toiling as Financial Services Bros, or for special interest that frequently declares skeptical views of, let’s say, poverty, or perhaps on behalf of shadowy multinationals. One doesn’t imagine these Washington, D.C. Manchester City Bros giving back to the community. One doesn’t imagine them tipping, or holding a door open for someone, or self-diagnosing the clinical nature of their behavior. Still, these Bros are people, too. Who will sing for them—“WAAAAAA!”—when their bodies return to the earth? Who will sing for them when they return their sky blues to the hamper? Who will sing for them when the Bud Lite fails to vanquish the demons of the following truth: vastly wealthy foreign ownership buys titles, some of the time, but not all the time. “WAAAAAA!”

complaint week 2015 editorial schedule:

October 26: The Democrat Machine

October 27: Artists and Writers Who Say “My Work”

October 28: GWU Fires Adjunct Creative Writing Faculty

October 29: Washington, D.C. Manchester City Bros
October 30: People Who Don’tListen to Music

COMPLAINT WEEK 2015 #3 OF 5: GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY FIRES ADJUNCT CREATIVE WRITING FACULTY.

The student newspaper at George Washington University, The GW Hatchet, recently reported the layoffs of several part-time creative writing faculty members, ostensibly owing to institutional cost-cutting measures. For many years, a number of distinguished part-timers have taught at GWU, and I often regard my own time teaching in the creative writing program—mostly in a part-time capacity—as a formative period in my life. Back then, part-timers often carried teaching loads (2-2) resembling full-time loads and provided valuable departmental service that full-timers often did not provide. Noting that adjuncts probably earn a small fraction of what the full-timers take home, it does not seem like best practices—either corporate or programmatic—to eliminate these low-wage positions.

The article quotes a senior staff member as indicating that “budgetary pressures” drive the reductions among the part-time ranks. Moreover, the article quotes a full-time faculty member as saying “cuts to adjunct faculty will also make full time instructors’ jobs more difficult because they will have to take on more classes and have less time to spend one on one with students.” Both statements trouble me. In terms of cost-cutting, I have to imagine that the leadership of a wealthy, land-owning school could choose from a host of other options rather than axing a handful of part-time faculty, but appears to punish both the creative writing concentration as well as the category of people who may have to scuffle the most with our expensive world in order to teach the arts of prose and poetry. The full-time faculty member, meanwhile, conjures too much privilege among the tenure-track ranks, and misses the point. Here we see part-timers losing part of their livelihood as well as their foothold in the field. I enjoyed the response from a current part-time creative writing instructor (who loses a job) for voicing, in effect, that GWU should invest in people, and should tighten its belt, therefore, by not “[setting out] as many buffets.”

I taught more than 65 courses in the George Washington University English Department, the vast majority of them as an adjunct “professorial lecturer” earning less than $3,000 per section. A goodly gang of folks taught alongside me, in a part-time capacity. We supported each other professionally and personally, and we, as a group, often engaged in service activities—reading series management, literary magazine advising, public office hours, and so forth—that built durable community among hopeful young writers. GWU shames itself by laying off such a vital part of its creative writing program. The very same laid-off instructors are probably reflecting upon the fact that the university does not seem to care much about their plight, and hopefully, these abandoned teachers will not look back as they depart, and not do the university any favors in the future.

complaint week 2015 editorial schedule

October 26: The Democrat Machine

October 27: Artists and Writers Who Say “My Work”

October 28: GWU Fires Adjunct Creative Writing Faculty

October 29: Washington, D.C. Manchester City Bros

October 30: People Who Don’tListen to Music

COMPLAINT WEEK 2015 #2 OF 5: ARTISTS AND WRITERS WHO SAY "MY WORK."

“Let me show you my work,” they say, opening a portfolio in a storm.

It’s plenty brilliant, but it’s not like they’ve been punching the clock down at the smelter for six months.

“My work,” they continue, “attempts to trapeze the stigmata that violates the hierarchies and higher Archies Comics which serialize the tenderloin medallions of our jack-boated & peeper-jack rabbits” [sic].

They smell like every blundering variety of onion—yellow, red, white, sauteed—simultaneously.

One wishes they’d engage in ablutions, even back-alley ablutions, you know, “work” a bar of soap into a lather in order to exfoliate a few olfactory outlets.

“I try to work every day”, they add, if “to work” equates with menacing glances issued upon the skyline from the boxy confines of a dumpster-dove armchair.

The rejection of the treatise, the tilt of the beret, the ankle-height of the denim, the adjustment of the mustaches, the futility of the effort to vanquish an indefatigable booger.

“My opus is to myopia,” they say, “as my oeuvre is to my oeuf, as my opiate is to my Boeuffy the Vampire Slayer.”

Whew.

The work weak, the work ethnic, the work oat.

The scene shifts to a $3.00 coffee tab.

“I call this my work Visa,” they say, producing a credit card.

It’s a miracle the transaction goes through, it’s a miracle they pick up the tabby, [sic].

It’s a miracle they merely cull the heard of hearing.

complaint week 2015 editorial schedule:

October 26: The Democrat Machine

October 27: Artists and Writers Who Say “My Work”

October 28: GWU Fires Adjunct Creative Writing Faculty

October 29: Washington, D.C. Manchester City Bros

October 30: People Who Don’tListen to Music