Flat Fate

Flat Fate


(typewriter, rubber stamp, century-old large rubber stamp, ink)
I & Thou Visual Poetry Series
by Jefferson Hansen

Breath Shadow Spirit Ghost

Breath Shadow Spirit Ghost

(typewriter, rubber stamp, century-old large rubber stamp, ink)

I & Thou Visual Poetry Series

by Jefferson Hansen

Jefferson Hansen reading "The Branded Woman"

The Branded Woman & Other Poems

(TheAlteredScalePress 2012)

$5 postpaid (check to "Jeff Hansen")

PO Box 8303

Mpls., MN 55408

Chris Funkhouser—ELO Song

Experimental Art, Beans, Parenting

by Jefferson Hansen

"Some people never work a day in their life, don't know what work really means."  —Bob Dylan


This essay is not a put-down. I am merely asking us to look around more carefully.

Experimental art sometimes seems allergic to "soul." It deems it "sentimental," "overly simple," a "manipulation of feeling."

What is "soul"? When I, personally, think of the word, it has to do with a relationship between work and beans.

I know a fine person who once went to a farm to pick beans and develop his spirit. He walked around naked in the dirt, got muddy, thought about natural processes and probably became a better person in some ways.

There is nothing wrong with doing this. But it's not work. It's playing at work. And it's not "soul"; it's developing spirit.

When I think of "soul," I think of the following: wondering where the beans will come from for your baby's next meal, and working for them.

Deep country music, not the Nashville variety, often has soul. Think of how many deep country songs are, on the surface, about a lover, but underneath, about getting the beans for a child. And that's where soul resides. That's the magnetism we hear, if we choose to hear. The magnetism of food and the pull of parenting.

While cultural differences need to be respected, similar things can be said about blues and even soul music. I know that when I see Otis Redding on his knees screaming, "Good God almighty I LOVE you baby," I'm hearing, in addition, "Good God almighty where are the BEANS coming from."

I probably do not detect some artists—experimental or not—who, on one level or another, worried about the beans. I read or listen or watch and that aspect of their life may slip by me. But when I do think I detect one, I have never been wrong.

Some of these artists have been experimental, some not. As far as the non-experimental ones go,
I have often heard "complex" artists sneer at these people, dismissing them as "street," "sentimental," "bad."

As far as I recall, I have never heard an experimentalist who once worried about beans say such a thing—with the exception of people who may have been covering for the past shame of poverty.

Experimental art, as a variety of cultural dynamics, is often not deaf to soul, but, as already stated, allergic to it. It takes too much notice and tries to force it out, as if it is a contaminate.

This is a problem. Certain pieces of experimental art—and certain figures—get passed over. Examples? I hesitate to name them. It could be a little like outing someone.

How about we go at it more generally. In poetry, for example? Certain types of lyricism are deeply suspect in experimental circles. And I'm not talking about ridiculous confessional poetry—that movement was more bourgeois than the bourgeois. I am talking about a tough, sinewy, fleshy lyricism.

One that both reaches out to pull the contradictory vagaries of attention and awareness into some form of steady state, anchored by a hand that can bring in the beans when the chips are down. Or once did.

If this sounds gendered, it isn't meant to be. Who more than anyone knows how to get the beans in the kids' mouths when the chips are down—single mothers.

My point is not about art that addresses parenting and beans. My concern is with the short schrift given art that emerges in part from a consciousness formed, also in part, by worrying about beans. Soulfulness is sometimes too much for us experimentalists to bear.

A lot more needs to be said. Many experimentalists suffered and do suffer from poverty in part because of their choice of art. How much great art was funded on next month's rent, or next month's mortgage statement?

But this is another issue.

I am not pointing fingers. I only suggest that, before categorizing and dismissing too quickly, we look and listen and pay a little more attention. Why waste the riches?

"Zipporah" & "We Are Accidents in Spite of Our Designs" by Jefferson Hansen

performed by the author, Jefferson Hansen

filmed by Ann Bogle

"Zipporah" means 'little bird' in Hebrew and is the title of a Marilyn Crispell song

Jazz Forms (Blue Lion Books)

"The Earth's Always on a Bender," by Jefferson Hansen, after the song "Solstice" by Marilyn Crispell

"The Earth's Always on a Bender," by Jefferson Hansen, after the song "Solstice" by Marilyn Crispell

Jazz Forms (Blue Lion Books)
filmed by Ann Bogle

I-It, I-Thou

I-It, I-Thou

(typewriter, rubber stamp, century-old large rubber stamp, ink)

I & Thou Visual Poetry Series

by Jefferson Hansen

Religion = Violence

Religion = Violence

(typewriter, rubber stamp, century-old large rubber stamp, ink)

I & Thou Visual Poetry Series

by Jefferson Hansen

New From Starcherone Books

This whole post is from the publisher:

"It took me seventy years to write Niagara Digressions," says E. R. Baxter III, a lifelong resident of Niagara County. Niagara Digressions is an "indirect memoir" via cut-up method, a rich fabric of familiar and unappreciated histories mingled with the personal, from ancient cave paintings to 1960s mimeographed poetry, the massacre of the buffalo to the manufacture of shredded wheat cereal, and all-points in-between. As well, it is a naturalist's meditation on land as the canvas upon which all the stories are painted. If readers can be sensitive enough to absorb its complexities, they can also absorb its riches, and discover, as this book suggests, that they "can spread-eagle themselves on the ground and feel the earth's slow revolving and, simultaneously, here in Western New York, its rebounding, too, from its compression of thousands of years under ice."  - Eric Gansworth, author of Extra Indians, from the Introduction http://www.starcherone.com/

Spencer Selby Visual Art

Spencer Selby

skirting depth-2

For more from Spencer Selby, see http://spencerselby.blogspot.com/ and http://selbyslist.com/selbys-art/

from INVISIBLE DAUGHTER by John Colburn

the past

We put our ears on limestone fossils to hear the ocean floor. Speech had gotten stuck in our big steak dinner. Our town could dream. The creek stretched out a long name. Each fossil carried a shout of joy, a mind to feel hungry with, enough thought to understand stars. All bleached. All the dogs in town pointed their music at us. We listened. We felt welcomed in the caves, animal forms slow as clouds. Caves that are really caves can dream. Up the ridge earth’s wheel got louder. My horse was so tired. How did we go from the ocean floor to the pony express? We climbed. Invisible Daughter helped us. Sad of heart from head to foot. The time of stars and ocean streaked through us, we walked like branchless trees. In deep sleep the past appeared dead, we could see it in each other but we couldn’t understand. Stars fell backward in great tides. We watched.

tuesday june 19 1979

We knew Invisible Daughter could flicker awake too. Somewhere in the trees moon war guns veils dances love all memory light bent inside light and water voices eyes road hands language all inside trees. We decided to set a trap. What else could flicker? The road flickered with ghosts and hoofbeats. We sat still to watch the edges of leaves. The father slid awake and the mother was everything. We stalked invisible daughter through the blackberries. Green leaves could flicker into silver. Shadows moved east. Trees said waves. We needed a wagon to carry what was said through the town. The creek flickered to its underground family. Stars were fires and fire might be a ghost and flickered. No one could turn back ever. Our trap was time and it could trap anything. We built a small fire-in-waiting, altar for a cold ghost girl. Ghost fire. We surrounded the altar with our hoarded baby teeth. Does the woods know the earth is round? Are we inside a bubble? Someone lit the fire. Maybe ghost girl missing a tooth. Then we heard footsteps.

John Colburn is a Minneapolis writer and teacher. More from Invisible Daughter will appear in Altered Scale 1.

Recently Received

from Fiction Collective 2

Light Without Heat stories by Matthew Kirkpatrick
Another Governess & The Least Blacksmith by Joanna Ruocco
The Inquisitor's Tongue by Alan Singer


from Vox Audio

Howard McCord Reads at the Anasazi Fields Winery, Placitas, NM
Howard McCord Reads
Amalio Madueno and Avaro Cardona-Hine Read at the Anasazi Fields Winery

Hear Translucence, a poem by Jefferson Hansen

— not a ghost, you’ve 
not turned me there, no — 
but you riddle me with ghosts 
haunted organs 
ticking and tilting 
no sway, no swing 
not anymore 

your pink face 
pliant and smooth 
flitting elsewhere even 
when asking for touch 

fingers glance your 
translucence here, to hear 
what makes you click 
what questions linger into your 
tentative gropings 
my tactile guessings 

then fingers dig into my thigh 
as I thrum wet tenderness 
you toss me down, straddle 
we cry guttural, together 

but see only scattered pieces 
no converging 


_________________________

Jefferson Hansen is, most recently, the author (as J.P. Hansen) of the mystery The Vanilla Lawyer in the Mayhem Blues. His selected jazz poetry, Jazz Forms, is available as a free download.


jeffersonhansen.com

Recently Acquired—UNARMED

One of the Twin Cities' quiet little gems of a literary journal, Unarmed, edited by Michael Mann, is just out. Along with it comes red giant, a chapbook by Canadian Rob McKennan.

For copies, contact Michael at unarmedjournal@comcast.net

or

1405 Fairmount Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105

Angelika Beener: African American Female Jazz Blogger

Obviously, human beings—their ideas, concerns, idiosyncracies—cannot be reduced to such markers as race, gender, etc. However, so very few women, and so very few African American women, have written on jazz, that I want to note this important and balanced blog I just came across by Angelika Beener:

"ALTERNATE TAKES is a blog geared toward discussing and exploring jazz within a myriad of social contexts.  While this premise may not be new, the lens through which this subject is being explored is.  Jazz has been analyzed historically; examined, evaluated, critiqued, poked and prodded, predominately by White males.  Jazz is America’s freedom music, invented by African Americans.  The art form is part of the soundtrack to the African American experience and progression toward social justice in America.  This is not a journey which any sole group of people can document, at least not accurately.  And while I take no issue with any human being analyzing any art, it is disturbing and detrimental when Black art forms are being nearly exclusively examined by almost no one of color; and the pool of women writing about jazz, shallower yet.  This “tradition” results in a long list of damaging consequences.  Moreover, the generational disparity is another glaring factor.  If jazz music is to continue thriving, music journalists and other influencers within the music industry must simply engage and embrace young people.  Jazz is a living, breathing art form, and for it to stay afloat, its audience must be also.

ALTERNATE TAKES is an effort to broaden the perspective of the jazz discussion, through broadening the spectrum of its contributors, ultimately, in an effort to broaden the listenership, support and appreciation of the music.

ALTERNATE TAKES will cover current and classic subjects in the jazz world through interviews, reviews, and essays drawing from my experiences and observations.  And while the main theme is jazz music, my love for so many different styles of music will inform blog entries about subjects beyond jazz, so there’s something for almost everyone. But it’s time to document and discuss jazz music through a different lens; a larger scope, and invite musicians (and you!) to open up on these platforms and expand the discourse."

Hoa Nguyen's HECATE LOCHIA (hOt whiskey) Reviewed by Jefferson Hansen

I hesitate to write about this book of poems because it is in large part about a mother's bodily response to childbirth and its aftermath. "Lochia" is post-partum vaginal discharge that continues for about three to four weeks after birth. "Hecate" is goddess of motherhood, among other things. I chose to write about it because I write about almost every piece of literature that I read and like, and it is an extraordinary book. I'll do my best, but I encourage you to check it out.

The poems in this book address a certain knot of concerns from a number of different angles. Namely, how does the body of a particular post-partum woman encounter and participate in the degradation of the environment through pollution, war, economics, and politics?

The very first poem places us right in this knot: "Up nursing     then make tea / The word war is far." This fascinating couplet claims that war is far from the concerns of this nursing mother, yet her bringing the topic up proves that it's not too far. The poem ends by asking "Why try / to revive the lyric". The book then answers this question: to get this female knot of concerns into the tradition of the lyric.

"Thinking of Bernadette" (I assume Bernadette refers to poet Bernadette Meyers) opens with personal economic concerns. The poem asserts a nostalgia for the gold standard and bartering, and the first stanza ends with a comparison between money and a winding creek. Apparently, the poet feels insecure about money, that it's convertible and not stable. Her broken, hesitating, staccato lines magnify this issue. In this particular poem, her characteristic poetic style asks us to read offhand material ("thinking of Bernadette," "Ate ginger miso") with issues of crucial importance.

In "Pusa" Nguyen pulls together a wild variety of subject matter in just 12 lines. The poem is filled with phrases and clauses that do not connect to other parts of language. There's a kind of offbeat stumbling in her poetry that is, I think, akin to Thelonius Monk's music. How does she hold it together? I think the answer is primarily rhythm. You have to hear it, but when you do, the poems move in an almost inevitable fashion. Anything can find a place in these poems, right next to anything else, because her style invites them in.

For more on this book, see Stephen H. Sohn's "Effective Instability." His review does a fine job of focusing more particularly on specific themes than I do. I am more concerned with form.


This is a reprint of a March, 2011 review that I posted on an earlier blog of mine, experimentalfictionpoetry.blogspot.com

Hecate Lochia at hOt whiskey press

Fata Morgana, poem by Sarah Fox

I walk through the desert in search of something interesting.

I am so small and bright here, a living kingdom, irrigated

and stockpiled. Feelings and their forms needle

through me like plankton riding a river.

The river in me accords with twenty-first

century inventions, like the river in you.

I swallow with a good swallow.

A tall glass, living orgasm. How did I get to be

so small? I notice that the desert is deader

than other dead things. Loamier corpses

retain a bit of syrup, can be bent, will give

when pressed: more like live bodies than desert.

Or a little love shack where I might offer my cyst

to the furry comma last-gasping on the dune.

Her death is my favorite moment of our acquaintance.

I guess death leaks curriculum in accordance

with proximity. For me it's just not a biggie

anymore. I invite the dearly departing cutie-pies

to cozy up while I graze them with my cuticles

(as I liked to do with my blankie.) It’s true

that I went to the desert to pursue my mystagogy,

because Jesus said that a) he walked on

water and b) he went to the desert, so.

But this has nothing to do with Jesus ("such an asshole!")

The desert is a deadend where the head of a rabbit

joins the blood-hot sky and creases into vapors

of a throbbing heart. Brain waves. Almost edible,

like a downloaded placenta. (“That's so disgusting!”)

What I keep meaning to say is, I saw

the tracing of my very own death cry

pressed into the sand by fortune’s fingers.

It was interesting, it was worth the risk.

I knelt down to scoop it up,

but my face fell apart in my hands. 

Because Why (Amazon Link)

"Sarah Fox lives in Minneapolis with John Colburn and her daughter Nora Wynn. She has won fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Bush Foundation, and the Jerome Foundation, as well as grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board. Her poems and reviews have been published in Conduit, jubilat, Verse, puppyflowers, Spout, Swerve, Forklift: Ohio, Shattered Wig, Zoland Poetry, Handsome, Rain Taxi, the Boston Review, and many others. She's a teacher and a doula, co-founder of the Center for Visionary Poetics, and the publisher of Fuori Editions. She grows and loves entheogenic plants." (from Goodreads.com)

. 

"Fata Morgana" is part of a selection of poems that will appear in the first AlteredScale.com. The entire selection will be part of Sarah's next Coffee House Press publication.

Nick Piombino Notebook Collage

Nick Piombino, notebook collage (click to enlarge)

from Freefall (Otoliths 2007)

A number of Piombino's collages will appear in the first issue of AlteredScale.com

Nick Piombino during the 1970's was one of the original New York City Language Poets, along with Bruce Andrews, Charles Bernstein and numerous others. 

Nick Piombino's SUNY-Buffalo Electronic Poetry Center Page

Check Out Charles Bernstein's "Thelonious Monk & the Performance of Poetry"

"Bernstein asks why poets would read their work aloud and what happens when they do. He views the performance of poetry as a "competing realization" of the written work and explores the possibilities for tonal, rhythmic, and phrasing dynamics that performance adds to poetry. That in turn suggests a comparison with jazz performance, and specifically that of Thelonious Monk for his pauses and silences."

Jazz Studies Online

__________________________

This poem/essay first appeared in Bernstein's book My Way (U of Chicago Press). A video of Charles Bernstein will appear in Altered Scale 1. 

Zacc Harris Band playing the blues, Artists' Quarter, St. Paul, MN 2-8-12

The Twin Cities has a remarkable jazz scene—most famously, The Bad Plus hale from here. But the talent  is incredible. Enjoy.

Zacc Harris (g), Bryan Nichols (p), Chris Bates (b), Pete Hennig (d)

Zacc Harris Webpage

Artists' Quarter

It’s Not Possible, by Mark Wallace

            It’s not possible anymore to hop a late night box car in Albuquerque and be in Los Angeles a day later.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that some pseudo-Jack Kerouac routine is going to land you on the cover of Time Magazine.

            It’s not possible anymore to lead a large scale political revolution that will have as one of its main features a revision of the purposes of cinema.

            It’s possible to spread a leaflet with the facts but it’s not possible to hope that anybody’s going to do more than stuff the leaflet in their pocket and throw it away as soon as possible.

            It’s not possible anymore to know whether your full-time salary will support your family.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that if you get sick you can actually go to the doctor.

            It’s not possible anymore to know that your college degree wasn’t a waste of time.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid hate mail from people you don’t know.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that any of your potential political leaders have any of your interests in mind.

            It’s not possible anymore to buck the ratings.

            It’s not possible anymore to have a starring role on TV as a feminist detective.

            It’s not possible anymore to find a parking spot.

            It’s not possible anymore to put your hope in the children of the future.

            It’s not possible anymore to go back to the city where all your friends live because they don’t live there now any more than you do.

            It’s not possible anymore to think that anyone’s coming to help you.

            It’s not possible anymore to think that wars will end.

            It’s not possible anymore to come in here with all that earnest eagerness.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe you’re going to have fun at the party.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid that sensation of, “I think someone here is out to get me.”

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that love will lead you to change your priorities.

            It’s not possible anymore to devote your life to art without an income.

            It’s not possible anymore to cooperate with the professionals for your mutual benefit.

            It’s not possible anymore to one day become President of the United States.

            It’s not possible anymore not to enter the competition.

            It’s not possible anymore to understand the details of that benefits package that supposedly you’re damn well lucky to have.

            It’s not possible even to know whether those benefits really are benefits or just another way of having your paycheck taken back from you.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that your dentist wants your teeth to be healthy.

            It’s not possible anymore to know exactly how prisoners are being mistreated.

            It’s not possible anymore to know whether you qualify as a citizen.

            It’s not possible anymore, because of all the traffic, to know that you can get there on time.

            It’s not possible anymore to know where the water you’re drinking has been.

            It’s not possible anymore to enjoy an encounter with dolphins or seals or whales without the phrase “oil spills” coming up repeatedly.

            It’s not possible anymore to let the mind drift away serenely.

            It’s not possible anymore to hope that anyone will learn anything.

            It’s not possible anymore to do better next time.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid debating the meaning of the word “torture.”

            It’s not possible anymore to be opposed to marriage.

            It’s not possible anymore to think that another bubble won’t grow from the bubble that bursts.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that if you wrote the Great American Novel, you’d have any place to publish it.

            It’s not possible anymore to say, “Things’ll be better soon,” without looking sheepishly at your shoes.

            It’s not possible anymore to know what kind of vehicles will be clogging the bike lane.

            It’s not possible anymore to make the freeways wide enough.

            It’s not possible anymore to get off the freeways.

            It’s not possible anymore to say, “There’s room for you and me both.”

            It’s not possible anymore to get out of town by sundown.

            It’s not possible anymore to use all the cheap labor you want and pass laws against immigrants at the same time.

            It’s not possible anymore not to kiss ass.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that your friends will use better sense.

            It’s not possible anymore to get your work done.

            It’s not possible anymore to be unreachable by phone.

            It’s not possible anymore to epatez le bourgeoisie.

            It’s not possible anymore to escape the phrase “having an impact.”

            It’s not possible anymore to do your own job without having to do somebody else’s.

            It’s not possible anymore to think you can stick this one out.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid the pressure and the meddling.

            It’s not possible anymore to be more cynical than your TV.

            It’s not possible anymore to walk before they make you run.

            It’s not possible anymore to sleep through the night.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid that feeling that something creepy is crawling down your back and you don’t want to see it.

            It’s not possible anymore to pitch in and do your part.

            It’s not possible anymore to have time to think.

            It’s not possible anymore to leave your work at the office.

            It’s not possible anymore for the group to make a decision.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that the group ever had any intention of making a decision.

            It’s not possible anymore to make the decision individually.

            It’s not possible to turn down the request.

            It’s not possible to submit the request.

            It’s not possible to fill out the forms.

            It’s not possible to get there from here.

            It’s not possible anymore to repair anything without calling in an expert who may not know how to repair it either.

            It’s not possible anymore to be on the lookout.

            It’s not possible anymore to borrow from Peter to pay Paul.

            It’s not possible anymore to get right on it.

            It’s not possible anymore to gather the working class.

            It’s not possible anymore to know who even knows the meaning of “working class.”

            It’s not possible anymore to be so sure about revolution.

            It’s not possible anymore to know that the people on your side are really on your side.

            It’s not possible anymore to bridge the gaps between what different audiences want.

            It’s not possible anymore to write a poem without knowing how the already defined social networks will react.

            It’s not possible anymore to know who your friends are.

            It’s not possible anymore to keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

            It’s not possible anymore to trust anyone’s advice about romantic relationships since it’s so clear we’re all fucking them up.

            It’s not possible anymore to think “all you need is love.”

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid the feeling that the whole project seems a little naive.

            It’s not possible anymore to laugh without feeling that you yourself might be the joke.

            It’s not possible anymore to afford buying a house anywhere that you would want to buy a house.

            It’s not possible anymore to have enough fun on the way down.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that the tribe, the underground or the alternative hasn’t already been co-opted by some of the same tendencies they’re struggling against.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid your niche.

            It’s not possible anymore to stop saying “please” or “thank you” or “sorry” more than anything else.

            It’s not possible anymore to absorb the content.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid psychoanalyzing the urgency.

            It’s not possible anymore to take it back.

            It’s not possible anymore to watch televised news without worrying that the world is careening towards destruction because a few people think they’ll make money on the deal.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe in the enlightenment fiction that people are reasonable enough that if you help them focus on the contradictions in accepted public attitudes, they will recognize those contradictions and in good faith work together to resolve them.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid asking, “What’s in it for you?”

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that you’re that much freer of your own pre-conceptions than any of the confused people you see all around you.

            It’s not possible anymore to find on the highway any food to eat that’s got much real food in it.

            It’s not possible anymore to have enough time to get really good at it, whatever it is.

            It’s not possible anymore for wages to keep pace with inflation.

            It’s not possible anymore not to have been there and done that.

            It’s not possible anymore to get that same lift from a Beckett character saying, “I must go on, I can’t go on.”

            It’s not possible anymore to balance the demands.

            It’s not possible anymore to cut out the middle man.

            It’s not possible anymore to look up into the sky and see the meteors.

            It’s not possible anymore to narrow the list.

            It’s not possible anymore not to go out on that limb.

            It’s not possible anymore to find the cover story credible.

            It’s not possible anymore not to prefer wasting time.

            It’s not possible anymore to get out to see more than a few of the amazing things you’d like to see.

            It’s not possible anymore not to be just a little half-assed.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid feeling grossed out by the perks.

            It’s not possible anymore to get over it.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid thinking that the most commonly shared sensation might be delay.

            It’s not possible anymore either to keep it to yourself or to talk about it.

            It’s not possible anymore not to ask, “Why are you asking?”

            It’s not possible anymore to be only a little skeptical.

            It’s not possible anymore to seek solitude and privacy without being part of the reason there’s no solitude or privacy.

            It’s not possible anymore to be sure that your vote will be counted.

            It’s not possible anymore to know where the money is going.

            It’s especially not possible anymore to know where the $12 million or even the $12 billion is going.

            But it’s also not possible anymore to know where even your tiny portion is going.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid the aggressive loudmouthed bystander.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid the stalkers, the moochers, or the managers.

            It’s not possible anymore to go to pieces in quiet.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that expecting the worst can really prepare you for the worst.

            It’s not possible anymore not to think most of the time about poverty and violence.

            It’s not possible anymore to become famous by joining a punk band that plays a concert on the Thames and curses on a television talk show.

            Not only is it not possible to believe that others are going to do what they said they were going to, it’s not possible to believe that you yourself are going to get around to many of your own best intentions.

            It’s not possible anymore to know what anybody is talking about.

            It’s not possible anymore to get good cheap Friday night fish fry.

            It’s not possible anymore to empty the buckets.

            It’s not possible anymore to mail even your close friends a bag of Colombian.

            It’s not possible anymore to stop your computer from talking at you.

            It’s not possible anymore to duck and cover.

            It’s not possible anymore to try the back door.

            It’s not possible anymore to go to Vancouver if you left your passport in Nashville.

            It’s not possible anymore to say to yourself, “Something good has got to come of this.”

            It’s not possible anymore to think that anybody likes it better than you do.

            It’s not possible anymore to trust that your therapist wants you to feel better.

            It’s not possible anymore to assume that no one in your class is carrying a pistol.

            It’s not possible anymore to assume that no one in your class is carrying a pistol in the belief that it will make everyone safer.

            It’s not possible anymore to assume that the security guards have been trained or to feel better if you know they have.

            It’s not possible anymore to go on vacation without thinking about how much you’ll have to do when you get back.

            It’s not possible anymore to stop counting the days.

            It’s not possible anymore to know whether the person doing your job review knows anything about your job.

            It’s not possible anymore to get it over with.

            It’s not possible anymore to catch up later.

            It’s not possible anymore either to have the right attitude or to fail to show the right attitude.

            It’s not possible anymore not to deal with that guy who thinks his shit smells like roses.

            It’s not possible anymore to get beyond the cliches.

            It’s not possible anymore to move on to the next step in your thinking.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that anyone even understood the first step.

            It’s not possible anymore to try again when you’ve thought about it further.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe in a third way.

            It’s not possible anymore to make up for it next time.

            It’s not possible anymore not to live dangerously.

            It’s not possible anymore to know more about your own habits than your customer surveys already reveal.

            It’s not possible anymore to get up on the barricades.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that any of your good intentions will have a good result.

            It’s not possible to try anymore, but it’s even less possible to give up trying.

            It’s not possible anymore to make that leap of faith, but it’s even less possible to give up that leap of faith.

            It’s not possible anymore to end on an instance of effective rhetoric.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid preaching to the converted.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe your hard work will get you ahead.

            It’s not possible anymore to believe that you’ll be better off than your parents.

            It’s not possible anymore not to know that one morning you’re going to wake up in your room and see it all coming back to haunt you.

            It’s not possible anymore not to wonder if you haven’t been mistaken.

            It’s not possible anymore to take that big fresh breath of morning air.

            It’s not possible anymore to say anything that’s not optimistic.

            It’s not possible anymore to repeat after me.

            It’s not possible anymore not to send in the clowns.

            It’s not possible anymore to feel like the first time.

            It’s not possible anymore not to dedicate yourself to every basic thing you believe in and work as hard as you can for them without knowing what will happen.

            It’s not possible anymore to give up on things because they’re not possible.

            It’s not possible anymore to end a poem either with hope or despair.

            It’s not possible anymore to say it one more time.

            It’s not possible anymore to want your mistreatment.

            It’s not possible anymore to avoid looking around and saying, “Here we go,” and diving right in.

            It’s not possible anymore to be a believer.

            It’s not possible anymore to choose, but it’s even less possible to stop choosing.

            It’s not possible anymore to put your feet down and walk away.

            It’s not possible anymore to keep on going or to not keep on going or to not not keep on going or to not not not keep on going or to not not not not keep on going or to not not not not not keep on going...

            It’s not possible anymore to stare right at it.

            It’s not possible anymore to look away.

            It’s not possible anymore to ever be sure of what’s not possible or to be sure of what’s possible either.

            It’s not possible anymore to know where it’s going, but then again it never was.

            It’s just not possible, and yet here we are.

            It’s not possible anymore that something else won’t happen next.

________________________

Mark Wallace recently published the novel The Quarry and the Lot (BlazeVox)

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