Thursday, August 16, 2012
Lee Upton's 'Swallowing the Sea'
Fans of Lee Upton's poetry already know she is an ascended master, both feet firmly anchored to the planet even as she shares visions to make any bodhisattva jealous. So it's no surprise to see her assembled essays on the ambitions of the writer be presented as a distilled series of stories and aphorisms, almost overwhelming in scope. The book has a very particular focus for a developing writer facing unique challenges, and thus warrants a high four rather than a perfect five stars, if only for the eclectic target audience.
This is not a traditional instruction manual of writing as a craft - no guide to clarity in presentation, effective character development, parsing and pruning of lines. Instead, 'Swallowing the Sea' is meant to give writers who have a decent grasp of their own goals and methods a better understanding of how to interpret their ambitions, how to deal with dry spells and ennui, and how to disclose secrets deliberately and effectively.
Don't be fooled by the apparent brevity of the book. This is the type of distilled narrative where every word counts (scarcely surprising to find a virtual prose-poem comprising an essay about genre-hopping). Upton makes heavy use of other writers' observations, albeit in very unexpected and startling ways, almost approaching the style of a music mash-up at times. Those who might be frightened by dense and obscure references, however, should be delighted by Upton's warmth, humor, and directness. Just about the time we've had it with kibitzing by Salman Rushdie or Muriel Spark, we get a simple aw-shucks story of growing up on a Michigan farm. This book always puts its passionate humanity first, even if it's adorned with plenty of accessories at times.
The value of the essays will vary with what the reader brings to the book as opening assumptions, though any reader might agree that the final 40 pages of the book contain examples of some of the finest essay writing of the last century. The categories of ambition, failure, boredom, purity, bigamy, and secrecy will play in different accentuated movements for each reader. Leading with ambition and failure was wise, as the experiences are at least partially valid for any experienced or would-be writer. The examples of obsessive ambition in writers like Balzac are provided to bring us back to the theme of obsession at the book's end. Most worthy in these initial pages, though, is the description of examining a Titian painting from every possible angle, gaining new insights by seeing the obvious while it's askew. The topsy-turvy approach is applied liberally in the section on failure, examining everything from rejection to incapacitation.
The section on boredom will be invaluable for those whose wheels often spin in deep mud, though I had specific reasons for not finding resonance. Upton is not talking about writer's block here, as much as pointing to the places and times (committee meetings) where experience is a looped rerun, an infinite plain. In training for discovering the joy of small, almost inconsequential experience, I stopped suffering boredom a few years ago. In the process, I willed myself to almost an artificial autistic state - accept all perceptual inputs with equal status, then apply bandpass filters to keep from going crazy. Some of Upton's observations in the boredom section can be applied to the filtering problem, but it required some digging.
Upton makes clear in the purity section that the notion of cleansing and purging rituals must be applied with extreme care, and is not for everyone. Early on, she provides us with Pablo Neruda's virtual rejection of purity in poetry (an opinion I largely share). But the book provides a teasing suggestion that a ritual of stripping away is worthwhile, not just for reaching a minimalist core, but to let us know when we are filled with too much baggage.
The last two sections climax the book's hidden power with the unexpected directness of a suddenly-lopsided prize fight in its final rounds. Upton uses the term "bigamy" to refer to the melding of genres and the willingness to experiment outside familiar domains. Perhaps genre holds some mysterious power in academia - I don't see it as mattering very much in a world where improvisational musicians move into spoken-word performance, and Latin American poets give us hundreds of pages of police reports as the backbone for a new type of fiction. But even if the notion of bigamy means little in loosely-defined worlds, the observations in this section are astonishing.
Announcing up front that you are concluding with a section on secrecy may spook the reader into expecting a declaration that all writers should be enigmas to the outside world. That is hardly what Upton is about. She is talking about a strategy of disclosure in every work of prose or poetry, a process that begins with the crafting of a world too puzzling and personal to be relevant to a reader, and the means of carefully revealing the secret core in a manner that can makes the most monotonous of poems as much a cliffhanger as a detective novel. There are some startling, occasionally terrifying, passages in these final pages - poetry from Lawrence Joseph and Paul Celan, and an excerpt from a Don DeLillo novel, used in a discussion of the possible meanings of the word "embedded," that will chill many readers.
Upton's final page comes upon us abruptly, but with such love and hope that any reader can feel the book was a personal pep talk. Yet there are dimensions Upton chose not to explore. While a critic should never suggest what type of book should have been written if the author determines it to be outside a domain, Upton herself talks about the "schizophrenia of publishers," but never addresses the virtual disappearance of the traditional publishing industry. While most advisories within the book can apply to an online world, traditional notions of editing and vetting are vanishing at light speed, and it would have been nice to see an exploration of what a book-and-audience world devoid of moorings might look like. Oh well, that's another book. Upton has given us a collection of a half-dozen essays as radically unique as Giorgio Agamben's 'The End of the Poem." It seems difficult to imagine another set of honed and distilled observations that could even cover similar grounds, let alone do so as exquisitely as 'Swallowing the Sea' managed to do.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
The Fire Next Time - Three Waldo Canyon Poems
I realized that there is a physical, if not psychological, price to be paid for days of adrenaline fight-or-flight reactions, of using sheer terror as your accompanying soundtrack. I've been physically sick for 48 hours with something that is not viral or depression-based, but a malady that might be called post-fire ennui.
The local landscape is much more physically sick, of course, though it's surprising how much green is still in view. June 26 was not just a breakout day, it was an epic firestorm in an urban area, unprecedented in the state of Colorado, at any rate. The deep scars at the saddle of Queens Canyon and the ridge at Blodgett's Peak won't be showing healthy signs of new growth until the years when my life on this planet will end, assuming no early exit. Then again, I won't be seeing too many new-shoot results near Deckers from regrowth after the 2002 Mt. Herman fire. So it goes.
It's forgivable, I suppose, that the three poems below all demonstrate apocalypse in their own way, but I'm so through with End Times right about now. The indirect use in the third poem of the collapse-and-hope quote of US Forest Service official Jerri Marr (pictured above) is intended, not only to indicate that hope never dies in the scariest of armageddons, but something more lasting as well. There is beauty in living through collapse, honor in documenting the decades after Rome was sacked, after the Black Death decimated Europe, after the damage stemming from the multitude of climate-change localized atrocities have moved through your town. We might as well get used to such a concept, because we get no vote about living in an era when the F. Scott Fitzgerald parties are long gone. If Amy Hubbard's column in the Los Angeles Times is correct, all forest fires might be super-fires from now on. Or as Denver economist Sanjay Ramchander said last fall, "Maybe volatility is the new normal." No sense being a Debbie Downer, this is the hand that is dealt. Rejoice this Fourth of July. But put away those sparklers, damn it!
Lot's Wife
(for the northeast perimeter of Waldo Canyon)
Buy into the latest Essene fables
where fire is to guide
and salt is to condemn,
while nonetheless realizing
destiny turns all mumbly-tumbly
in such an intolerant heat.
Enough to submerge Duluth,
enough to microburst Tampa’s Sunshine Skyway,
while surrounding Santa’s Workshop
with the abject terror of explosive pine cones.
The pillar shimmers orange 24/7
a shade midway between caution and halt
but beckoning even so,
whispering in your ear
that the inconvenient truth
is the orgasm of perpetual wildfire
of beachfront property in Wainwright Alaska
of all that is
verboten
west of 30th Street
and the Flying W Ranch.
The garden variety CPA will not buy into
the insistent clarion from heaven,
but will tabulate,
3,446 acres, 5 percent contained.
as Julianza throws in higher-order divisors from Utah,
79 into 1,063
which of course gives a prime factor
of the number of people at Utah Lake Shooting Range
the day the Dump Fire is contained,
the day Bluffdale beckons,
the day Waldo Canyon finds its itinerant pillar,
drowning out D.A. Pennebacker shouting
Don’t.
Look.
Back.
Renounce all sin and vice.
Loring Wirbel
June 25, 2012 (5 percent contained)
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel
Blodgett or Bowie: A Triage Conundrum
There are few modern guides to etiquette that include chapters on effective disclosure to evacuated guests that their home may be cinders. Geomap interactive web sites and dynamic city-county best-practice apps don’t provide direct addresses of devastation, so one is left with police scanners, a lonely and frightened cry of “Fall back to the Woodmen perimeter, we can’t defend Blodgett!”, and the certainty that the Blodgett Loop is a mobius of fire-starter, the little running fire demon collapsing into itself until Giganta the Fire Monster crests Blodgett Peak as all is certainly lost. Time for the single-malt scotch and the gentle hand on a wrist, the throat catching in smoke inhalation or compassion at the phrase “About that garage…”
Except that our Incident Coordinator tells us there is a Stanley Trail involved in the mystery, a radio repeater and a Tesla Hydro Facility no one knew was there, invoking images of Bowie as Tesla in The Prestige, Sammie Joe Kinnett in the eponymous Tesla, both hoping to foil the evil Edison before he murders more animal innocents through high-voltage torture. The failure to suppress may well be one of triage between the hydroelectric plant and the radio repeater, realized solely on the basis of whether direct or alternating current would be employed, just as Tesla would have wanted it. A home saved? Perhaps, or maybe just an independent currency in a year all euros fell victim to fire damage.
While just down the road, Mt. St. Francis nuns of sound mind and body are missing in action, the feebler residents of the nursing home sent to the double-digit floors of local hospitals, and the chickens sent to alleys behind the Rio Grande police substation. Our wayward fowl become new evacuated neighbors of a peace-in-space activist on the very day that Air Force Space Command sends its Vandenberg hot-shot crew for Giganta suppression. It is in just such alleys where a rooster crows every morning through the duration of the fire, reminding everyone that in the choice between AC and DC, there are always sacrifices to be made.
Loring Wirbel
June 27, 2012 (Day 5 of Waldo Canyon)
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel
Weimar
I’ll be the first to admit
there’s no evident screaming Aryan
immolating illegals in the borderlands,
only the desecration of shrines in a Timbuktu far from public view.
I’ll be the first to admit
there are few hints of million-percent hyperinflation,
not even the banging pots of Buenos Aires,
only the exhaustion of purchasing power
that leaves the wrinkle in Angela’s face,
the tea-leaf reading that says
nothing ever works nothing ever will.
Still, the clearing sky leaves a Brechtian vapor trail.
Babette held her cabaret Saturday as the flames were tamped,
long black sequined dress, pearl-tipped cigarette holder,
as we tiptoed our way through Bauhaus ashes
expecting Marlene to emerge from Majestic Drive
covertly displaying black-market silk stockings,
the kind men like.
Hold fast the Marr Hypothesis at all times in this incessant heat:
Even in collapse there is hope.
I slowly circumnavigated the Blodgett Loop this afternoon,
Mistaking the open-space char scar for Dietrich runny mascara.
The first Weimar
ended in the Swiffer expunging all that was not Nordic blonde.
The second Weimar
was the grain of sand,
dropped into a cascade that collapsed its anthill long ago.
Few tasks remain aside from documenting the flash shadows
of the dozens of subtler Hiroshimas to come.
Loring Wirbel
July 2, 2012
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel
Friday, June 8, 2012
The Importance of Being Fendersoned
The Dada critics and dubstep snobs who eat all the canapes at art openings and wiggle their pinkies at the Shock of the New will no doubt say that there is no longer call for a Fenderson in 2012. These are the people who have worn out their Zorn Tzadik welcomes, the kind who have not heard the extended 'Junkie Mom' mix on Soundcloud. Sisters and brothers, I am here to tell you that I visited the Fenderson homestead on the Fourth of July two not-so-long years ago, and was washed in the blood of the lamb, courtesy of improv percussion music from Amy Splitt and friends, and a patriotic reading by the campfire by some crazy-ass guy who Deral counts as A Friend.
If it isn't clear by now, I provide these testimonials as part of an infomercial to prod you to go over to Indiegogo and throw some money in the tip jar for the Fenderson Prescription Series. You are lucky enough to live in a universe in which Deral Fenderson exists. Don't blow this chance.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Automated Warfare and the Offense vs. Defense Conundrum
On June 1, intelligence expert and ace reporter David Sanger offered up a front-page story in The New York Times revealing that the ultimate source of the Stuxnet (and presumably, Flame) worms and viruses was not Mossad Unit 8200 or the Likud Party, but President Obama, working through the National Security Agency and Cyber Command. It came two days after another NYT front-page story (this one not by Sanger) indicating that the president himself approved the targets for drone strikes in Pakistan.
Given the way the Justice Department has gone after journalists under Espionage Act prosecutions, one might think Sanger at least, and possibly Jo Becker and Scott Shane, have reason to be concerned. But wait - the White House deliberations described by Sanger sound very much like inside baseball. Could it be that Obama campaign managers leaked both stories in order to give the president an aura of military resolve? If so, it could end up being effective for his campaign. Cyber war is seen by many as victimless, and drone war is interpreted by many as a way to get the bad guys while hiding the blood. Obama not only can get troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan, he can tout himself as the master of the new automated robot wars. A lot of liberals and conservatives alike see that as an unabashed good thing.
You know I couldn't let that one go without comment, but the rant in this case is not merely a means of exercising sour grapes. In the case of cyber war, the methods of cyber defense practiced by NSA and Air Force Space Command/Cyber Command over several decades can have few critics. But the lesson with past computer war-games is that cyber-defense almost always is combined with cyber-assault. In this respect, it is much like the arcane arguments over missile defense and missile offense. Most U.S. citizens would say, "Let's use our advantages, and see cyber assault as preferable to real-world military assault." If that is the rationale, let us remember that no assault comes without expanding the footprint of results under the Law of Unintended Consequences. This happened with Stuxnet when the computer worm moved far outside the Siemens embedded controllers for which it was designed. Similar worms and viruses that impact critical safety systems and public utility systems are bound to have negative consequences as well. Protecting U.S. critical systems against hackers from China is a safe and prudent operation. Engaging in cyber assault has ethical implications that cannot be swept under the rug by saying that Stuxnet is better than bombs from Tel Aviv.
Such ethical consequences are even greater when one uses the precise targeting power of armed drones to craft the drone as a tool of targeted assassination. Sure, a drone is safer than a SEAL Team 6 that goes in-country to take down al-Qaeda operatives, and much safer than a large scale CIA or Special Ops assault. But the CIA and military intelligence agreed in 1976 not to engage in targeted assassination. This pledge was ripped apart by Dick Cheney when he hired Blackwater to create the kind of hit squads later used by Obama to get Bin Laden. The abrogation of the deal was regularized by President Obama in February 2009, when he developed regular lists of Pakistani and Afghan bad guys to take out of commission. Maybe this is a good thing, a cheap, sanitized, and relatively secret way to take down al-Qaeda one terrorist at a time. But you and I never voted on removing the assassination ban. This was simply considered fair game in the highly-touted War on Terror.
What President Obama has become expert in, might be called the new face of war. It is highly automated, quite secret, and very asymmetric. Who knows, maybe an attack by a flock of drones might be used against Baath officials in Syria, as might a computer assault on public utility systems. But asymmetric advantages are unstable by nature. Cyber war and drone war virtually guarantees blowback, which might include direct robotic assault on the U.S. homeland. Before blowback happens, it is useful to remind U.S. citizens that assault remains assault, whether it is conducted by bomber, JSOC squads, drones, or a computer virus.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Songs Scared from the Conch // As Voices Carry - Poems by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

The review below is for the online book at Keith Alan Hamilton's gallery:
One kind of simple ecstatic revelation takes place as a dedicated reader tries to keep up with Carolyn Srygley-Moore’s prodigious daily output of poems online. Anyone can be prolific, but only a few can be continuously transcendent. Revelation of another sort takes place when one sees Srygley-Moore’s work over a period of time collated by mood and subject matter. It then becomes clear that she bears but a passing resemblance to mortals.
Previous collections of Srygley-Moore’s work, in particular Memory Rituals: An Army of Suns (Tjgrszmk Publishing, 2011), allow us to assemble jigsaw pieces of discrete brilliance into larger landscapes. Her online archives occasionally are grouped in different diary or miracle categories which give intentional or accidental glimpses into the mindset behind the puzzle box.
The new online work explicitly sets out a cladistics for ordering her work, which may or may not correspond to how the poems resonate to real-world imaginings (though that damned guitar does keep showing up in the phylum order known as ‘Bargaining with my broken guitar,’ giving us confidence that she knows what she is doing). Publisher Keith Alan Hamilton and Foreword Author Aad de Gids provide a framework for deciphering Srygley-Moore, all aided by artwork from Wm. Andrew Turman (as well as the author herself), providing a dime map of the reef.
If we judged familiarity by its closeness to the earth, the second section of the online book, ‘a dog in the snow’, might be the most comfortable territory, due to the abundance of things we can see, grasp, or at least glimpse through a microscope – the dog, the breasts, the orange, the amoeba. At the same time, we catch hints of the difficult events that have shaped her, from the distant and violent father to the dalliances with a profound hopelessness. It’s OK, focus on the dog for now – or that silly red guitar, if you wish.
Some might find the most direct references to transcendence (or its absence) in the third part of the book, which shares its title with the book itself (‘Songs Scared from the Conch’). Between dead deer, marches against Three Mile Island meltdowns, and terror of uncertain origin, we find ourselves in the fuzzy purgatory zone that exists just past the collapsed wave-front of the world that apparently exists. I found the most direct personal references in the poem ‘Between deaths,’ with its brave declaration, “I leave in order to come back again.” Since I’ve felt myself caught in a bardo between two or more distinct physical lives in the last few months, Carolyn provided me with a personal anthem. But the most universal cri de couer in the third section might be the italicized second segment of ‘Clocks of Seawater’:
“ii.
the same snowman, molten with spit-fire,
or kerosene, is it // the unlit lamp, the lamp
that cannot be lit, O clock of water,
I beseech you, ruin my wristwatch again, usurp the hour
with the secrets of the oceanic
fish in flight, secrets of going fishing
on new years day, pissing the stars away … all runs into each other,
doesn’t it, ink blots, “what do you see here
a mother, a daughter // if you enjoy this, you are compulsive.”
hear lions in the forest, you are more than paranoid,
even if there are weeping lions in the forest…
i see you, old lover, with another girl,
tell myself you are old playmates, kissing each other without tongue
down in the dry creek bed, & then
soldiers appear, are they sailors, scrubbing
decks of fire, nailing the planks together,
into a Prometheus boat of iron such as man has never seen.”
The final three sections of the book are all surge experiments (more successful than the Iraqi variety), where ‘Drunk on the Other’ might claim to be the most obvious in declarations of victory, though ‘Gathered In’ and ‘Write Something Happy, he says’ are victorious enough in their own right. CSM proves she’s not trying to be obscure, or dependent on oblique strategies, in a poem such as ‘On Transcendence,’ where the opening line declares ‘You’re open to the other dimension.’ Every poem in the second half of the book refuses to dwell in any specific sort of sadness, but moves beyond.
In fact, this collection is so good it makes me uncomfortable in a strange way. The scientific method has given us such a good way of describing the surface of things, it would be nice to let the wave-front stand for the whole, to pretend the Michelson-Morley experiments worked and we didn’t have to deal with any of that Einstein and Bohr shit. It would be nice to gloat in a Richard Dawkins style of militant atheism, but Carolyn has taught me to plumb the ley lines, admit to angels, dive under the light sheet to swim in all 11 dimensions. Owning up to the other realities she forces us to face is unnerving and glorious at the same time.
Rationalists tend to get fidgety when confronted with the language of ascended masters. This applies not only to scientists and fact-checkers, but even to the erstwhile surrealists who like to keep at least one foot grounded to avoid high-voltage shocks. Carolyn Srygley-Moore presents with exquisitely-described worlds that clearly reveal the presence of angels. Her words must be swallowed in gulps, adsorbed through the skin without benefit of an anti-static grounding strap. Ecstatic revelation is guaranteed, almost becomes commonplace when reading her work, but beware the dosage. The St. Vitus' Dance could muss up your hair.
Loring Wirbel
March 26, 2012
Copyright Loring Wirbel 2012
Ten Recent Works - First Quarter 2012

Other Types of Taliban
Word of her death arrives
wrapped in the MISSING flyer
Young Black Female Cat.
No mew from an outcrop den.
No gentle moan from Portland
as the meaning of the phrase
‘portions for foxes’
snaps into sharp resolution.
Hashashins some six years’ gone
made thunderous declarations,
a bike bomb in Kandahar,
the transient running with scissors
yanking back her wheelchair handles,
double-barrel Remington
forced under whiskered chin,
the bottled djinn that pops a cork
of demon demon rum
the morning after three wishes are granted.
Thus do I claim for the hidden imam
voices yet echoing from six years past,
the scimitared Saracens haunt the dawn hours still.
Today, though, is significant only for its silence.
Declarations of a new sharia in sign language alone
insure that this beheading
takes place without a sound.
Another Playmobil tipped over
in the dollhouse upper story.
The foxes grow fat.
Loring Wirbel
March24, 2012
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel

Harsh Exceptions to Happier Rules
I. The Messianic Trotskyist
He’s been purged from the recipient list of several memos from central office:
* Fourth International reliance is only allowed with bundles of The Militant under one arm.
* Vanguardism dwindles in effectiveness when one is about to lose teeth in the process.
* I hate pacifists fails as a slogan for expanding the number of cohorts who swoon at your mere presence.
* Hostile takeovers rarely worked in the capitalist business world, either.
* Zero de conduite under the column labeled “plays well with others” should never be mistaken for a badge of honor.
The apostolic dinner for 12 dwindles under klieg lights to the predictable army of one,
a hoarse and bitter croak accompanied by viscous spittle laminated to lip’s edge.
We shall overcome.
Well I should hope so.
II. Fly’s Eye Ghost
When using the mobile version of Google image search for Safari, Chrome, Skyfire, Opera Mini, call up the name of the violently deceased, let colors pixellate into a tragic waffle iron grid, and wait until the pattern of beautiful faces forms a moiré of the type experienced by houseflies in the nanosecond before the swat. Arrange the images in chronological timeline or Poisson pattern. Cross your eyes while staring at the central photograph of the beautiful face that might have been. Blur all discrete images at first teardrops, it is the Tucson of forgotten terror under the big black sun. Continue watching the grid unify as you weep uncontrollably.
III. The View from the Cockpit
The decision to wear pumps apparently saved the flight crew from significant leg scrapes or puncture wounds. The narrative of Windows on the World breathlessness at 9:14 a.m., the initial bankruptcy hearings of AMR, made a modicum of sense for the first 30 seconds, until her tone of voice betrayed an otherworldly panic that could not be blamed on solar storms.
Captain I am not responsible for crashing this plane.
The act of physical restraint, of course, generating an epileptic’s superpowers, her limbs assuming angles unimaginable on this tarmac or any other. Screams, sobs, speaking in tongues, brought to zero by six brawny male passengers and a nine-inch strip of green duct tape. The copilot snaps head to right to watch the green DFW inter-terminal ambulance take a hard right at B31, then glances back up to see the atmosphere invert itself as it turns to purple and eventually to an impenetrable black.
Loring Wirbel
March 10, 2012
Copyright Loring Wirbel 2012
Almost Laingsburg
The Tennessee gentleman reimagining sadness
sets up shop along Creyts Road
as if to demonstrate
a hometown uncertainty principle
defying the purposeful meridian
defining the purposeful meridian
as we pick through his pockets
of sparkly resonance, coincidence.
My only possible response
is to program the GPS
for ideal Murfreesboro coordinates,
latest in a long line of sister cities
where cars drive themselves
where lives switch to permanent autopilot
where ley lines deemed impossible
by every sacred text in the temple of reason
erase all surface features
of the underlying planet.
Loring Wirbel
Feb. 16, 2012
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel
Absentee Matrimony
for the subspecies of shadow children –
not merely surrender-monkeys of custody guerilla war,
but the might-have-been doppelganger kids,
ones disrupting thousands of warmed-over
platters of insolence,
if only she was mom
if only he was dad.
The ghost-parent hears Corning shatter
from a continent away,
sends regret and comfort back
through the vapor trails
of a court-ordered Michelson-Morley
that of course fails through lack of ether.
She was 14 at first moonlight at University Hill,
19 in the record-store filing system,
carrying on a parental tradition,
22 when bells rang in corridors past
a perfectly sealed anechoic chamber,
a white veil for undaughter,
a handful of rice, tossed in a style and tradition
meant to split the half-silvered mirror,
but left hanging in a local manifestation,
jasmine and texmati for a half-dozen mule deer.
Longing breeds the fallacy of shadows from which no light escapes,
but certain ghosts fluoresce,
certain shadows glow as the most perfect dark star.
These are the doppelgangers that
metamorphose into angels of light,
and Michelson and Morley at least might agree
that nothing travels faster than light,
does it?
Loring Wirbel
Feb. 20, 2012
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel
watchful waiting and the bucket sex list
“What used to be called watchful waiting is now more sophisticated,
and known as ‘active surveillance with delayed intention to treat’.”
– Marc B. Garnick
so what you’re saying is the rapidly booming population
of prostate-specific antigens
are speaking in tongues?
the translation is no longer
‘we’re gonna whack your ejaculatory tract,’
but more that elongated Texas drawl,
pregnant with pause, that says
‘I’ll be growing a mite, pee comes with push,
but really you’ll learn to like me in time’?
are you comfortably Hippocratic without blade
or nuclear burn?
take your shoes off, set a spell?
because the little walnuts between ureter and rectum
really do stand in for apoptosis, don’t they?
too many wordy folk in my line of work already
call the orgasm the little death,
so maybe the light sheet from every organ, each mitochondria,
is its own little cell-death-while-coming.
this starts the stopwatch at a pace worse than slow.
no deadline fragility of four months and out,
but the water balloon, tangled at garage-door spout,
swelling in stretched latex,
and was that a Trojan?
what difference would it make?
every six months a scalpel choice presents itself
and the intimate list expands.
the rake’s progress considers only likelihood of fluids
and nearness of charm,
but the ethical connoisseur weighs the nuclear option
in forms both intimate and rad-therapy derived.
the lips the small of back the tangled hair the penetration
i saw her again last night
apoptosis may be swollen with pride
programmed cell death may be bursting with joy
how many necessary souls left on the list
get crossed out, surrounded by hearts,
drowned in faint goodbyes,
until the cocked pistol at each lipid membrane
each synapse
explodes as we cry out together
we are all joe’s prostate.
Loring Wirbel
Feb. 9, 2012
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel
Safety Dance - Superbowl Symbiosis Poem with Carolyn Srygley-Moore
Trading texts with Carolyn on jerks, delinquents, ignoramuses,
camera pans Gisele mid-cringe
for the husband leaving moronic end-zone wake.
No supermodel quim for beautiful Brady boy,
and Madonna still a Chevy apocalypse away.
Loring Wirbel
Superbowl XLVI
Feb. 5, 2012
Copyright 2012 Loring Wirbel
Pallbearers Eight
Steve Appleton. Stacy Doris.
Ben Gazzara. Zalman King.
Wislawa Szyborska. Mike Kelley.
Dorothea Tanning. Don Cornelius.
Collateral damage displayed in octet.
Boise Icarus discovers every Lancair
on a Sol Invictus arc
is subject to midair stall.
Willing male bitch of Niagara Detroit,
deliriously starving on Eight Mile
finds profitable screen printing way out west
and un arte para la vida worth ending in Topanga.
Two for the head, the church’s one foundation,
Foundations rebar-reinforced by Don to sing a
Build Me Up Buttercup
as eulogy and funerary hustle.
The eight pseudorandom victims chosen
to levitate a coffin with brass nameplate
‘Goodwill’
seduced or mesmerized to assume a special mantle,
spittle dripping from wads of Red Man tobacco,
kick or curse ready for any homeless brat at cemetery gates,
the triangle star-spangled fold and triple report of seven rifles,
21 honor valor and age of consent
as goodwill, of course, served the nation well.
I hang at the periphery of ceremony,
recognizing pallbearers among the recently deceased.
Eight boutonnieres that cannot hide the stench,
not that of recent zombie,
but that of coffin bearing remains long since putrefied.
Where are camellias, zinnias, daffodils?
There ought to be larks.
Instead, a Bukowski in clerical collar
kicking at stone, snarling,
“Stupid shit. We warned him.
Anyone who might have mourned for the dead
drives home alone, exhausted.”
I could have cleared my throat,
a mighty fortress is our
but for spitball hurled by Gazzara
sending me ducking into thorns
of a rosebush laid fallow by malignant bile.
The parameters of barb-wire enclosure fold inward
until ranch resembles prison yard -
and there is Valerie June, her cantata wail,
her dreadlocks become barb-wire become sailor’s half-hitch
for pallbearers in drydock.
Loring Wirbel
February 5, 2012
Copyright Loring Wirbel 2012
Busby Berkeley's Darker Reel
Clint Eastwood picked the wrong moment to ask for help spiffing up red shoes. For one thing, even on a Technicolor planet, The Film Foundation was not on my short list of friends this month, no matter how many Korean tacos Scorcese offered to buy me from the extras truck. The more immediate dilemma, however, was not fade but monochrome.
In a dazzle of ultraviolet and infrared edges, even Gold Diggers of 1933 displays too many peacock feathers for this fade-to-black intermission. Pick the fifth reel down, the one that pushes Joan Blondell’s peroxide wash to obscurity. This is the reel where dust accumulates slowly on the lens. This is the plow that broke the plains.
Peter Gleick shushes the crowd, asking for a show of hands as to whether today’s Havasupai will resemble last year’s Murray-Darling. He conveniently overlooks the Sedona reds becoming charcoal in last light. He neglects to mention that the house lights are dimming, or is this hysterical blindness? No matter, in low light the outline of Ruby Keeler’s breast can captivate just enough to still parched throat and hunger pangs.
What if I grind Roman Scandals through a hyperspectral imager, what if I layer the sausage casing by rainbow hue? The result is gray bratwurst. Even My Little Pony’s sparkly vapor trails are flattened to beige in Dark Days.
Jim’s choral poem describing five acceptable hues goes dark for want of a hex code. I fumble for Atomic Parsley instructions in a projection booth with no light switch. Your two fingers in the small of my back remind me of interruptions where no color is required. We choose the toned-down reels for Mason-Dixon and blue-law states, but the moist labia that lubricate my index finger hardly seem toned down. We’re in the money.
Gleick clears his throat in the near-darkness below, trying to preserve some semblance of control over a tough audience. He shouts to the booth that he never understood what the hell a silver certificate or a gold standard had to do with the Darling River. You echo his darling twice, thrice, until my head swells and stiffens in gray and black and gray again. Another fellatiated crucifixion William Jennings Bryan might appreciate.
Only the alternate ending survives in darker imprint, the one where Walter William proposes to Joan after her Forgotten Man lament. Bam White forgotten on the broken plain, Walter Waters forgotten on the Bonus March, 3 million Guy Fawkes squatters forgotten in the Occupy monochrome retake, Gold Diggers of 2012. At least the darkness will prevent any Douglas MacArthur from spoiling the fun. There’s time for a round of blind man’s buff before the credits roll.
Loring Wirbel
Jan. 21, 2012
Copyright Loring Wirbel 2012
Even Lithium
The tenebrae of Tebow denouement
reminded me that every pink rabbit meets its immovable object.
This King Day will be spent sitting in a circle,
tossing the hot potatoes of clocks running down,
Safe in the knowledge that each LED of a strange red moment,
not our own,
is right at least twice in a given event horizon.
We’ll send out each elongated tick and tock
for its Hail Mary moment,
observing as the Baby Einsteins we all pretend to be.
King in Memphis.
Dusty in Memphis.
By the time the low indicators begin to flash,
devices are already misbehaving
like spoiled little James Earl Rays.
Phones send text messages from long-dead angry birds.
Cameras display forgotten hallucinogenic spectra,
living proof of the 1880s.
People cower on the floor behind exercise cycles,
claiming they are being held prisoner
in a Bagram no one else sees.
“He’s dying,” I tell her in what should be a forceful voice,
running out of time, patience, insistence.
“Then I shall have to hit him,” she says.
“Bunnies mustn’t stop.”
Too many already have.
Loring Wirbel
Jan. 15, 2012
Copyright Loring Wirbel 2012
Three Gorges on the Plains
“On those days when the wind stops blowing across the face of the southern plains, the land falls into a silence that scares people in the way that a big house can haunt after the lights go out and no one else is there.”
-- Timothy Egan, The Worst Hard Time
What once was beeline south of Lawrence
hemming the poodle skirt of Topeka
has been mangled in four decades of flood control
into the Balinesian dancer silhouette
of Lone Star Lake.
Pete’s house stumbles to the center
of the nameless peninsula between the dancer’s legs.
“We didn’t pay special fealty to any municipal gods,” he insists.
“We were just too high to drown.”
The reverse process is common as well,
in the Ogallala pocket of Nebraska,
at a no-lake McConaughy
where a leap from dozens of boating docks
will plunge you into rip tide of prairie grass,
an undertow of threshers more effective than any piranha.
Is it a strict mirroring function across the plains?
One drought demanding one symmetric damming flood
across Sand Hills awaiting a Keystone pipe dream deliverance?
Or does the condemnation operate in decades of Dust Bowl
and inundation in an endless Balinesian dance?
The ley lines are writ larger east of Mississippi River
where a flood control project lasts millennia,
a mitten peninsula is hemmed in by
Voyageurs,
Paddle-to-the-Sea,
Beaver Island,
Thunder Bay,
and the bustling hometown bar
is Pete’s house writ large.
On the banks of the Grand in the center of Michigan,
we were too high to drown,
but I relocated to Colorado just to be sure.
In a symmetric Three Gorges hemisphere far far away
a million and a quarter Yangtze residents sought higher ground.
Chongqing asks more to leave.
Will they follow the Dalai Lama to Lop Nur?
Will they seek a Colorado visa, just to be sure?
A peninsula exit is a method of flood control,
one-way dikes whisper higher, higher,
don’t slam the door on your way out.
“I am nothing without pretend,”
Jen sings almost imperceptibly,
as ABS brakes fail to lock on invisible ice,
“I stand in awe of superficial things.”
The car executes a half spin,
a Balinesian twirl,
as I marvel at the acreage flooded
in such a dry dry winter.
Loring Wirbel
Jan. 3, 2012
Copyright Loring Wirbel 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Juzza Fax, Ma'am

My disappointment with Mike Daisey goes far beyond his betrayal of Ira Glass personally and the listeners of This American Life in general. In his traditional Tesla-loving fashion, Daisey has become the lightning rod for everything about post-modernism and fabrication-as-performance-art that I've despised in recent months. But to explain that aspect, I'll have to go back a few weeks to a cover review in New York Times Book Review.
On Feb. 26, the front cover of the review featured the book The Lifespan of a Fact, co-authored by John D'Agata and Jim Fingal. Reviewer Jennifer McDonald did a decent job explaining why an essayist and his fact-checker would want to write such a book (and why Fing
al may have lowered himself by even collaborating with D'Agata in any way), but what really shone through is what an utter asshole D'Agata was. He was an asshole because he took the post-modernist position that, since all narratives are equal, striving to discern what really happened in the physical world was not important. All was subject to interpretation.Call me Old School, but if I stub my toe hard enough on a table, it's gonna hurt and I might break something. While I inhabit a body on this particular physical plane, I must render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's, and that means facts matter. Yeah, yeah, you subjectivist fools, you can tell me that all information processing in a discrete human brain is subjective, that we re-invent a series of events every time we attempt to remember, but that is what the scientific method is for. We develop hypotheses, test them in the physical world in ways that can be replicated by others, and develop a narrative that corresponds to events that have been validated to have taken place in the physical world. And such a description of the world is stronger than Revolutionary Truth as imagined by Stalin and Lenin, is stronger than any faith-based truth as imagined by any of the modern or ancient religions, and stronger than any silly-ass narrative that Derrida or Foucault may pull out of some magical realm.
Obviously, I think post-modernism is important to the extent it brings to light the stories of women, gays, subjugated peoples, etc., but often the narratives of dead white guys have withstood the test of time because they were based on empirical studies. Not always, to be sure. The so-called objective history of the post-Civil War Reconstruction, as taught by white social scientists in the 1920s and 1930s, was an elaborate suite of consensual fabrications that was not fully exposed until the 21st century. That kind of thing will always happen. But it doesn't mean that when someone decides to tell a lie, that this is the moral equivalent of telling what one believes to be an accurate description of the physical world.
Mike Daisey started out being a story-teller of the Spaulding Gray or Laurie Anderson variety. As such, he could take liberties. But once he decided to contract with This American Life to tell the story of workers slaving over iPhones and iPads in the Shenzhen region of China, he had a responsibility to tell that story as accurately as possible. Let's face it, conditions in Foxconn and other companies have been bad enough to spark mass suicides. Workers have been contaminated with benzene and hexaphene derivatives. But if Daisey overstates the case, he ruins the argument.
Plenty of working journalists have been caught in this kind of thing. Some just have corrections published, some have been fired from jobs, some have been shamed from the profession. But the difference between sloppy or plagiarizing journalists on the one hand, and fraudulent story-tellers like D'Agata, Daisey, and such fake-memoir-writers as Anthony Godby Johnson and Herman Rosenblat, is that everyone in the latter group says, "I am a performance artist. I am a teller of tall tales. I have the right to lie."
From a legal standpoint, they are right. In fact, I hope the Stolen Valor Act is overturned, because the mere act of lying should never be criminal in its own right. But when you make an implied contract with your audience to represent facts on the ground as honestly as possible, and then go ahead and make shit up, and laugh it off as irrelevant, you have lost any claim to ethical behavior. You are no longer righteous. You are a lying charlatan. And far too many "artists" in the 21st century think this is OK. They are wrong.









