When it’s cold Poetry will warm your soul and make you angry and change the world.

c-cold

I was going to a poetry thing outside the Masonic Temple but woke up all snuffly and its way hard to blow one’s nose when its this cold and I didn’t want people to see a poet with icicles dangling from their nostrils so I decided to stay home and drink hot chocolate but if you see poets outside the Masonic Temple stop and listen to them and take their handouts which will be poems and not invitations to the next demonstration though I was going to put invitations like that on the back of my poem-handouts because this is a fucked up country in a fucked up world and we have to keep coming out to the streets and shouting and chanting and making people so angry they will be almost as angry as we are and will wake up and join us and change this world which is what poetry is all about waking people up and imagining a better world so if you see poets outside the Masonic Temple north of City Hall here in cold cold cold Philadelphia stop and listen and take their handouts and then invite them someplace warm and non-corporate and buy them hot chocolate because they are very brave and dedicated poets and I love them very much and am sorry that I woke up snuffly — I wish I could be with them.

Wintering Bikes

Marc Taro Holmes's avatarCitizen Sketcher

(This is an older post that got accidentally deleted – so, re-posting back up).

Here’s a slice of life in Montreal. The mournful sight of bikes rusting away in the snowbank.

There’s lots of reasons to bike in Montreal. The bike lanes pretty much go everywhere, and there’s nowhere to park a car anyway. Plus it’s greener and all that jazz. So lots of people bike. Some ride all winter – snow and sleet be dammed. We’re Quebeckers! Mon pays c’est l’hiver!

Here on the Plateau, people live in these 100 year old buildings with precarious external staircases. There’s no place in your tiny apartment for a bike even if you didn’t fall to your death trying to take it upstairs. So you’re always seeing them on the sidewalk, locked to a little iron railing, axle deep in the snowbank.

After the melt the streets are littered with these frozen…

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Valentine’s Day

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Valentines day. The day I knew…viscerally knew, my life was expendable. The day my son was born.. .and held my breath till he took his first. And knew. That in the order of things, he must outlive me. Acceptance of death.
I’ve been in love. More than once. The romantic confusion that turns Being-in-Lust, into something transcendent. But there is no transcendence. We grow old. We grow out of lust. And our lust itself–you might think, more trustworthy, coming out of the body, is itself confounded by that romantic movie we hoped to inhabit… so we miss even what it is our bodies hunger for, and cannot account for our multiple failures,
Cupid… you are the ultimate trickster. I can’t hate you for that… but only hope that I might become more like you.

So may we all.

Discussion Group: Art Beyond Capitalism

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Discussion Group: Open Invitation to Artists and their Friends
A-Space, Philadelphia
Saturday, March 21. 7:00 PM

Tentative agenda

Art Beyond Capitalism: Distribution and Support for Artists Outside the System

Consensus for discussion on items below
Consensus for facilitator
Consensus for note taker

A group discussion to explore the place of artists in our commodity-investment driven economy

Introductions:
Tell us your experience with galleries, selling, finding support for your work.

For discussion:

What questions or ideas would you like to add to the list below?

Define what ‘success would mean for you?

Do you believe the best art/artists will always rise to the top? Why? why not?

For women, and POC. what has been your experience with the present marketing system?

Is there any alternative to the Gallery-to-Investor pipeline?

Individual versus collective alternatives

Do we want to meet again to continue this discussion?

Links to posts on Art & Capitalism

Poetry & Art on the Brink of Extinction: 

Art and Capitalism: there has to be a better way:

STOP SELLING YOUR ART!

Making Art Outside the Machines of Power:

Art Artists Posterity in Post-Capitalist World

Poetry & Art on the Brink of Extinction

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from December, 2009… waiting for the end. When OWS came along two years later… I was ready.

I had this feeling once before, on the third or fourth day of the Cuban missile crisis, standing outside the door of a nearly empty auditorium on the Campus of Wichita State University, listening to a member of the faculty playing a Bach partita for unaccompanied violin. This time, it doesn’t go away. It comes over me every time I look up at the sky.
Below is a comment I tried to leave to a post on pas au-delà, but there seemed to be a problem with the system. As it’s something I think about every time I hear someone complain about Obama’s failure, I’ll post it here. But pay a visit to Matt’s blog–and buy someone you love one of his beautifully crafted cutting boards for Xmas.

We need a revolution… but of what kind?

The problem with blaming Obama is it suggests that, whatever it is that’s wrong, the right individual in the right place, is going to be able to make it different. Even if there were truth to the cliché that the American president is the ‘most powerful man in the world,’ his power is still limited to stirring the soup; he can’t cook up a new reality. His power is borrowed–it belongs to the whole vastly complicated network that created the mess in the first place.

No president is going to start a revolution, and nothing short of revolutionary change is going to get us out of this. I say ‘revolution,’ because I can’t think of a better word–I sure don’t have in mind any historical example I can think of. Not going to help to turn the pie upside down, put the one’s on the bottom on top, but same old pie. And it’s not going to come from the top down. Before power corrupts, it blinds. Even the prospect of destroying all life on the planet isn’t enough to penetrate the belief of those used to having their way, the belief that they are in control, that whatever comes, they–if no one else, will be able to tough it out, to survive and prosper.

I don’t have a picture of how that ‘change we need’ is going to happen, but I’m damn sure it’s gotta be big… bigger than the industrial revolution, bigger than the emergence of nation states… something equal to the neolithic agricultural revolution, the beginning of settled urban life and our invention of the gods. In a way, our imaginations are still dominated by that vision–whether or not we hold to any of the great mythical systems that grew out of it. What we need is nothing short of starting over, of building anew from the ruins… (is this, perhaps, the ultimate challenge to artistic vision…?) trouble is, I don’t think we’re going to have a second chance. We have turned ourselves into collective infants–a two year old–who out of terror and anger at the failure of the gods we invented to define and lead us, are about to destroy everything in a final uncontrollable tantrum.