Also: You’re invited! Join us at Torn Page in NYC for a special launch event for The Suitcase Tree on March 23rd at 7pm!
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VARIATION ON A THEME BY RAM DASS
One is much
We are in drag as the multiple
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Thank you for talking to us about your process today!
Can you introduce yourself, in a way that you would choose?
I’m Wolfman Librarian, AKA Loup Garou, the lariat on cue.
Why are you a poet/writer/artist?
I’m not. But rather, somewhere between wolf and human…the suchness…um…the myriad doth spring forth. . .the gazelle dolphin. . .yet another of the extinct pink on light blue elf cues to come in and take away my garden. Bring it back! I know it’s not mine but bring it back anyway. Thou! Thourt that the one HUM. Yaourti in the Greek tradition…drizzled with golden prophecy beamhoney and walnuts…when I ordered this in Hania, Kriti — the waiter made bull snort noise and hoof stomp dance to show me it was coming. Pity it was not he coming upon my face for Thrace. Such dish: grace.
When did you decide you were a poet/writer/artist (and/or: do you feel comfortable calling yourself a poet/writer/artist, what other titles or affiliations do you prefer/feel are more accurate)?
Decoded in the frenetic architecture of delivery, ongoing and transforming through the unknown not-knowings.
What’s a “poet” (or “writer” or “artist”) anyway?
What do you see as your cultural and social role (in the literary / artistic / creative community and beyond)?
Songster of subversivest incest inroads into the royal family to make unrest a palimpsest of possibilities PRESENT.
Talk about the process or instinct to move these poems (or your work in general) as independent entities into a body of work. How and why did this happen? Have you had this intention for a while? What encouraged and/or confounded this (or a book, in general) coming together? Was it a struggle?
Never independent, toujours interdependent…interpenetrative interpretations unspooling the kite string of moment — momentous gaucheries in the combat field alignment of stars alighting on the face at any given time, especially now as Mars the red orange swims through Pisces and splits the fish cord and those fish gotta find their own chord changes now based on faith let loose in the jamways — watch out for the pits — teeth break on that — but if you’re not all gums by now perhaps you’re not crunching hard enough on the fears and digesting them into the most delicious beers ever fermented in the mouth of Meerkat Lear.
Did you envision this collection as a collection or understand your process as writing or making specifically around a theme while the poems themselves were being written / the work was being made? How or how not?
Envision my soak as one long epic poke and being poked back in episodes — a top and bottom interlude catalog shifting through the thorough grammatical and etymological changes magnified through epistolary bifocals of the Epistolariat Committee of Letters (Komintern, sic.) A bathtub homecoming for Agamemnon is assured in these lines, nay, is rather precipitated, and the razor snowflakes of Klytaimnestra will slice that daughter-slaying fatherflesh of his so far down the bathtub drain we’ll need a week’s worth of Braino to blue it back up in the gurgle gargoyles of Neptune.
No, but seriously.
No, but there is no no seriously. No separation between prose and poetry — no explaining explanations because no symmetry — nothing born — nothing dies — and yet here I smile with flesh full of flies — a hotel for death to escape into on one of its long hangover weekends when it must mend to become to the manor born once again with the bats. Is Batman in this? Because if not I refuse to read on! But perusal is imminent. You can tell by the tents under his eyes — Perusal’s — that Perusal Arousal chap hath been in the Stacks studying so long the eyeballs goopdrip into the canvas and spandex banners anonymous arise — as long as the arising is listened to presently — the episodes unfurl and one is not separate from the other — such be the antidote of Poetry to the separation society of any organized Church and State Knot Constellation. Reclaim desire together as the myriad empowerments venturing forth into the embellishment mattress of nations — soon to be torn apart by us poet wolves for making love on the bare floor as the nerves hum under the tremendulous tablecloth of Frank O’Hara Candor Afterlife presently now reappearing as thoughtgong struck in the golden center by a music mallet with no hand attached to it.
Theme is discovered by accident on the way but also might be pre-ordained only to be thrown away in the winds of composition practice as the anthro chance chorus chimes in with its wise madness from every chiming coffee cup — we poets begin our lives in radness — thereof come dependency and recovery and Sadge adzes to cut through addiction rope and be whole again and listen patiently to the screams and whispers and songs of the holes even when they do you troll. And oh how they troll. But one must hear out and calm one’s inner troll so’s not to become it. So the Clairaudience of bliss presents itself to anyone willing to breath the breath with the breath. Unto breathlessness even. One emptiness. Empty of permanent abidance or New York State Residence. Fugue State Residents to come, welcome! Please step this way for our in the hills dance!
What formal structures or other constrictive practices (if any) do you use in the creation of your work? Have certain teachers or instructive environments, or readings/writings/work of other creative people informed the way you work/write?
Boa constrictors best avoided. Though the lines might become them. Most encouraging environment the one I created myself with a rag tag slowly discovered tribe: Shakespearian Motley College (which evolved from Reading Poets by Sun Sign and Queering Poets by Sun Sign) — these are “seminars” I teach, but really more like poetry jam sessions I conduct where we read poems together, aloud, by authors of whatever sign the sun happens to be in, (for example: Dickinson, Celan, and Myles for Sagittarius) and then we do “freewrites” and challenge ourselves to go as far into outer space as we can. Courage, candor, candelabra. To transgress against all our fears, emboldened by each other, playing in the band, writing to be banned and savored, wordspells as desire liberators.
Speaking of monikers, what does your title represent? How was it generated? Talk about the way you titled the book, and how your process of naming (individual pieces, sections, etc) influences you and/or colors your work specifically.
I saw a rollaway suitcase hanging from a tree growing out of the graves in front of St Marks Church and — WHOOOSH — Arrival of a Something. Investigate. Titles come after. All of this retrospectacle a fiction — what else could it be? I am not that person anymore. But the one now becoming is happy to be with you here and hopes you are having a good day — even in these our collapsing states of consciousness continually regenerated by faith and hopefully excercise regimen against whatever regime’s in pretend power — to fete it out of the way — to let our feet ferry us where we play — far beyond all pepper spray! Occupay! Soleil coup coupe.
What does this particular work represent to you as indicative of your method/creative practice? your history? your mission/intentions/hopes/plans?
I’m curious what it might suggest to you and don’t wish to stand in your way. That’s true hospitality. Giving space. And time. And a stoop of wine. Or a stoop of any kind. Where are we going to congregate if not there? Only where it’s monetary? We need spaces to play together without money vaccuuming everyone clean of eyes. No more eyesocket surprise. The one eyeball winks in the night flight to San Francisco tray table — but is it unfolded or folded back up — and who can tell when we’ve reached cruising altitude if there’s endangered cruising shore. Let the extinct cruisers return and teach us how to score is not to score but to give and listen and dance between the orange cones until they are no more. “No obstructions in the mind because no-mind.” — The Heart Sutra.
What does this book DO (as much as what it says or contains)?
This book loves you up if you ask it to.
It’s yours to do with what you want to do.
If you sing it it might melt cage bars with you.
This book’s no book
But a friend who talks by listening to you.
Crooner echo zoomlense in blue.
What would be the best possible outcome for this book? What might it do in the world, and how will its presence as an object facilitate your creative role in your community and beyond? What are your hopes for this book, and for your practice?
Let’s talk a little bit about the role of poetics and creative community in social activism. I’d be curious to hear some thoughts on the challenges we face in speaking and publishing across lines of race, age, privilege, social/cultural background, and sexuality within the community, vs. the dangers of remaining and producing in isolated “silos.”
Poetry: made of, by, and for Interbeing — across all the arcs — throughout the allness in all its uniquenesses — celebrated openly — celebrated into existence again and again — by defiance and soulfullness and trust — today — yes. Now blesses us with its one chance and one and one again segments. Through all the messiness — the breath — thanks.
Filip Marinovich is the author of WOLFMAN LIBRARIAN, AND IF YOU DON’T GO CRAZY I’LL MEET YOU HERE TOMORROW, and ZERO READERSHIP (all from Ugly Duckling Presse). His new book THE SUITCASE TREE is fabulously now in your hands from The Operating System. He conducts the ongoing poetry jam session SHAKESPEARAN MOTLEY COLLEGE at Torn Page in Chelsea Manhattan.