The Death Section

Because I don’t think we have been morbid enough yet, I would like to write some more about death, specifically the many horrendous and/or bizarre methods of achieving death, to wit:

Standing in the way of an axe. And then getting fed to a wood chipper.

Self-inflicted gunshot to the temple.

Death by hemlock, as punishment for “corrupting the youth.”

Found wearing someone else’s clothing, lying dead on the streets of Baltimore after spending the previous night with “the jimjams,” or “jazz hands,” or “the staggers and jags,” or “the horrors,” that is, suffering from wicked wicked alcohol withdrawal, muttering the name “Reynolds” over and over again for some reason, then collapsing on the street, mumbling “Lord help my poor soul” before expiring.

From starvation, in a Viennese sanatorium, while suffering from “suicide headaches” and tuberculosis.

From pneumonia and a pulmonary abscess, after being confined to a cork-lined bedroom for 3 years.

In Bangkok, at the age of 53, electrocution by poorly grounded electric fan, while stepping out of the bathtub.

Hanging by a rope in a closet in Bangkok, following “accidental autoerotic asphyxiation.”

Accidentally slipping off a boat and drowning after “seven or eight” glasses of wine.

From peritonitis, on an ocean liner bound for Brazil, after swallowing a toothpick at a cocktail party.

Bleeding to death from a nosebleed on wedding night.

From pneumonia, while experimenting with freezing a chicken by stuffing it with snow.

Via smashing head on board while attempting a three-and-a-half reverse somersault in the tuck position at the World University Games.

From tuberculosis, while sipping champagne, with these last words: “I’m dying. It’s a long time since I drank champagne.”

“Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.”

“Moose…Indian…”

“Good-bye…why am I hemorrhaging?”

“Is it the Fourth?”

“Is it not meningitis?”

“Am I dying or is this my birthday?”

“Codeine…bourbon.”

“How were the receipts today at Madison Square Garden?”

“I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis.”

“Ah, that tastes nice. Thank you.”

“I am still alive!”

“Ay Jesus.”

“I am not the least afraid to die.”

“I’d hate to die twice. It’s so boring.”

“Does nobody understand?”

Via jumping into the thousand-foot crater of a volcano on the island of Oshima.

Via disembowelment and decapitation as a protest of the Westernization of Japan.

Via sticking head in oven with gas on.

Some claim barbiturates, others claim via wrapping a plastic bag around head, following allegations of plagiarism and suffering from an irregular heartbeat; suicide note reads: “I am going to put myself to sleep now for a bit longer than usual. Call it Eternity.”

Burned to death at the stake, coals raked back to expose the body, then burned twice more, following sexual molestation while being held in prison, all this due to “heresy.”

Found dead in backseat of white Renault parked for 10 days on a quiet Paris street; overdose of barbiturates and alcohol, suicide note reading: “Forgive me. I can no longer live with my nerves”; this following a FBI-planted, fabricated newspaper item claiming pregnancy out-of-wedlock, planted by Hoover as revenge for voicing support for the NAACP and the Black Panthers, which allegedly led to premature labor and a stillborn child; also following a previous failed suicide attempt via jumping in front of a Metro train.

Bullet to the jaw while standing on the second-floor balcony of a motel in Memphis.

With the words, “Let’s cool it, brothers,” followed by 16 bullets.

A bullet in the back, a bullet in the head, while riding in a limousine in Texas.

Shot 3 times in a crowded kitchen at a hotel, with a .22-caliber revolver.

4 bullets to the back outside the Dakota, by a man clutching a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.

4 bullets, in a drive-by on the Vegas Strip.

4 bullets to the chest, while stopped at a red light in San Francisco.

Death by bullets and grenades, while walking unarmed with 8 brothers in South Vietnam.

Death by self-immolation, in protest.

Death by gas chamber.

Via a jump into the Gulf of Mexico, exclaiming, “Goodbye, everybody!” after having been beaten for sexual advances on a fellow male crew member.

Via an internal hemorrhage caused by cirrhosis, due to a lifetime of heavy drinking.

Via propofol, lorazepam, and midazolam, at the age of 50.

Via complications from cosmetic surgery.

From AIDS, at the age of 42.

From congestive heart failure resulting from complications of pneumonia, after the words “I’m going away tonight” and 3 long, quiet breaths.

From natural causes, at the age of 91, after having lived in seclusion for 57 years.

Death by hanging from a patio roof rafter, after years of suffering from severe depression, after suffering a relapse and undergoing electroconvulsive therapy, to no avail.

[…]

You know I listened to that song, “Human After All,” on the bus today.

Those life-affirming “robots.”

Human beings in costume, faces hidden. Standing on a pyramid. Crowds of thousands.

In order to establish a connection.

To create a memorable moment in time.

For no other reason.

In the summertime.

In Grant Park, Chicago.

I have been there, to Grant Park, for Lollapalooza.

I am writing now; spring is approaching.

I am writing outside at a café in Paris, with croissant and café au lait. I am writing at a hookah bar on the island of Marmara, the sea Propontis bathing me in soft wet breezes. I am writing at a table by my window over the street, my apartment in Lakeview. I am writing lying down in what were once cornfields on my grandpa’s farm in Rockford. The air is crisp and cool; the sun is shining.

The Poetry of Steve Roggenbuck

Hey people, if you didn't see it already, HTMLGIANT posted a piece by me called "The Poetry of Steve Roggenbuck." Thank you to Blake Butler for publishing it.

In the piece, I discuss Steve's two poetry collections, i am like october when i am dead and DOWNLOAD HELVETICA FOR FREE.COM, both self-published in book form and for free online, as well as Steve's Internet Poetry project, his videos, and his Facebook and Twitter activities, amongst other things. Also included is a 4-part video interview of me asking the poet some questions.

Response in the comments section has been mixed. Susie Anderson commented "yay boiz," and Elaine Sun praised my Brita filter analogy (from one of the videos), while someone posting under the name ":(" commented, "this is where beauty goes to die," and "letters journal" commented, "I don't think these are good poems," and added that they seem "sub-A Softer World to me." The negative comments, particularly those that expressed vitriol and little else, were referenced in M. Kitchell's post "On Criticism," published the following day. Kitchell, who was a vocal defender against shit-talkers in the comments section of my post, wrote something in the comments section of his post that I'd like to quote below:

"I think it's pretty easy to hate something without writing a scathing review of it. My concern is that I'm going to die some day, and whenever I think about how much time I've spent hating things I get remarkably pissed at the fact that that time would have been better spent either thinking about things that bring me pleasure or finding new things that are awesome."

"Traumahawk" by Mike Bushnell

Mike Bushnell has been in the internet literary scene for a while, much longer than I, and Traumahawk is his first print book. The story of his history in the scene can be found here. He has had several pseudonyms, but Mike Bushnell is his name.

Traumahawk is a very emotional poetry collection that seems to be inspired by a painful breakup or perhaps by a strained on-again/off-again relationship. The poems are minimal and direct and earnest. The collection opens with a trauma of sorts, an image of a man barely escaping a wrecked car. It also introduces a narrator whose casual vernacular ("'aw heck' I say / 'it was nothing kid / it was nothing'") reminds me of how Bushnell sometimes speaks. With this metaphorical rendering of trauma in place, the collection proceeds with poems addressing the woman he loves and poems that describe his life without her.

Some of my favorite poems in the book, like "It Builds Our Barn," describe overwhelming happiness. "Telling You Makes Me Cry" describes the feeling of finally saying something to someone that you've been thinking for a long time.

Some of my other favorite poems portray loneliness. "Are You Imaginary" is a beautiful poem about loving someone from far away, from a safe distance. Bushnell writes:

my eyes are the eyes

that beg you

to affect my life

like a pinch

or a face slap

In "Reallyreally," the narrator's mind is made up, he wants to ask this woman to marry him:

goodgoddamm

I don't like food I'm not tired

the house ain't clean but I ain't cleaning

I wish I could ask you to marry me

The book is largely concerned with the narrator's relationship to this woman, but there are poems that reflect on the poetry-making itself and on people outside this intense relation of two. In "Once I Was A Terribleterrible," Bushnell writes, "I am the person that these things must happen to / so that people who can connect may sustain / and have something / to talk about." This struck me as an interesting take on emotionally vulnerable poetry. I like the phrase "people who can connect."

My favorite poem in the book is undoubtedly "Watching Baseball on Mute." Poncho Peligroso, 2011 poet laureate, was visiting when I was first reading the book, and this was the first poem that I read aloud to him (the first of several). It describes a lonely man watching a baseball game on mute and seeing a woman talking on her phone in the stands and feeling like he recognizes her. He thinks about getting up to hug the TV. This is how it ends:

because I watched someone connect

with someone else in the background

and that is just sad

who am I kidding

I kneel next to it

and embrace machine

Here is a video of lovely Ana C. reading one of the poems from the book, "Call Me a Convert Because I Really Do Believe In Love":

Swag the Dog

James Swagney

Mick Swagger

Swagnum P.I.

Hi everybody

I haven't blogged here in a while. Life feels so empty now that the 2011 poet laureate isn't there when I come home at night...

Above you can see my homemade New Wave Vomit shirt. If you write New Wave Vomit on a white t-shirt, take a photo of it, and send it to Ana C., she will feature it on her new hype site, New Wave Vomit Swag. Kewl...

You can see Steve Roggenbuck, Brett Gallagher, and I reading poems and being goofy-ass bros on Ustream this past Sunday here. Features red wine, nuzzling, tongue, tweets, poems, shoutouts, and other things. Thank you to everyone who tuned in. We're hoping some of you will do your own Ustream broadcasts in the future.

***

I want to read more. Feel like I should work on my real life more, maybe... Feel like I actually live on the internet and not in the world.

***

Adam Robinson published my story "Serious European Art Film" at Everyday Genius. I am happy about that. I wrote the piece to read at the first edition of Cassandra Troyan's reading series, EAR EATER, on September 17th of last year, my 25th birthday. Tao Lin was there, and he was nice and took a video of me reading:

It's taken a while for that piece to be published. The nice thing is, I looked at it again, once it was accepted, recently, and made some changes, and Adam suggested some things, and I like the final version. Hurray

Negative Suck published a poem by me called "This Pretentious Twaddle Sure Sets A New Standard for Sentence-Driven Fiction." I'm not sure what to say about it.

Housefire published a piece by me. My title for it is "ALL CAPS NO PUNCTUATION," but it was written after being given a title or prompt by the editor, Riley Michael Parker, so it's published under that title, "We Are the First, We Are the Last."

***

My hair is getting long...

I've got two ebook projects to work on. One is a solo ebook for DJ Berndt's ebook series, Pangur Ban Party. That would be my first-ever collection or long-form thing. My goal is for it to be like an album you like to play a lot, and you have certain favorite songs but you can also sometimes play it all the way through if you're in the mood.

The second ebook project is called I LOVE MUSIC, and that will be a collaborative ebook with Steve Roggenbuck, which I think will use material from our mountains of emails to each other. Should be sillie + sweet...

***

I mailed out some more copies of Pop Serial #2 today. If you are owed a copy and haven't gotten one yet, here's why: I received copies at the end of December, just as I started a new job. I started the new job with no savings. I had no money left over from Kickstarter or anything else for mailing. So I've been mailing them in batches, a little at a time, as much as I can given my finances. My finances are improving, slowly, and I will get the magazines to you as fast as I can. I apologize for not communicating better about this, and I thank everyone for their patience and support. My email is stephen.dierks@gmail.com

M. Kitchell is designing an online home for the issue, which I'm happy about, both because I like his site design and because that way a lot more people can check out the magazine.

I plan to continue Pop Serial, both the blog and the magazine. I'm not sure yet what the next edition of the magazine will be like.

***

Do yall have any comments, questions, or suggestions for me? How is yalls lives?

Poncho Week

The 2011 poet laureate, Poncho Peligroso, visited Steve Roggenbuck, Brett Gallagher, and I in Chicago, and stayed at my place for a week. The first weekend we went to see Never Say Never 3D and to a sweet Columbia Poetry MFAs party. Poncho demonstrated his awe-inspiring yoyo skills and got covered in hearts. Steve got high on pixie sticks and was carried on a chair, crowd-surfed, and did the wheelbarrow. Steve's Google bomb meme, designed to make Poncho the #1 Google result for 2011 poet laureate, was covered on HTMLGIANT (hi, Mike Kitchell!) and a photo from the party was used. Poncho is now the #1 result on Google for 2011 poet laureate. Sunday night, a racy, life-affirming Ustream live broadcast went down at Steve's apartment. Poncho's Statcounter had orgasms all week long. Poncho and I ate together, tweeted together, and had a great time. The following weekend, the lovely ladies of phiLOLZophy.com came to visit, and their Tumblr friend Meredith joined us, and we had an epic, drunken, sexy time. Poncho is gone now, and I miss him, I miss everybody.

hula hoops forever

My friend, Michael Inscoe, has published "What the Fuck Does 'In Real Life' Mean If You Live In Front of Your Computer?" at his literary site, unsure if i will allow my beard to grow for much longer. Thank you, Michael. Includes the line "'What I mean is, you'd look good in baggy pants and a crop top, or something'" and the line "life is so stupid and exciting, yes."

My friend Steve Roggenbuck's forthcoming book/website, DOWNLOAD HELVETICA FOR FREE.COM, now has an official cover, by Osy Chung of Hong Kong.

Steve has also started a new tumblr called INTERNET POETRY and has released a doctrine explaining the thoughts and intentions behind the tumblr, which will publish submissions of internet poetry presented/created/distributed via guerilla tactics.

I just started reading Quartet by Jean Rhys. I have a shortage of books I really want to read on my bookshelf. I have read a lot of the books I picked up at used bookstores over the years, and I'd like to have new books/new authors to read.

I want to read The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis.

I want to read A Certain Lucas by Julio Cortázar.

I want to read more Bolaño.

I wish there were more authors I knew I wanted to read.

The more I think about the book(s) I want to write, the more I am unsure what I want to read, what I like to read.

I know I like when books make me laugh. I reread the opening to The Catcher in the Rye the other day, and I laughed the hardest I've ever laughed while reading it, at nearly every line.

I know I like in Beckett how the lines are striking and beautiful but also sad and alone and brusque and gallows.

I read this story by Frank Hinton recently that inspired me, "The First Time."

I want to read and write things that fill me up and excite me about knowing people and being alive, that make small mysterious gestures.

lets get 2gether b4 we get much older

Jessica Kirsch photographed Steve Roggenbuck and I by Lake Michigan for Steve's pre-release remix of DOWNLOAD HELVETICA FOR FREE.COM. As you can see, I hung from a tree branch with my legs spread wide while doing the Michael Jordan tongue as Steve held his poem. You can vote for your favorite "Steve's poem in real life" photo here.

I lost my goddamn motherfucking iPhone and am an idiot.

I love you

I've been working on some things.

I have an idea for my novel. I think it will be about a long-distance romance between two people who've never met IRL and then there will be a subplot/second strand re a relationship IRL. I think it will have 9 parts maybe. I'd like it to have 9 titles unofficially and 1 official title. Clarice Lispector, Tao Lin, J.D. Salinger. I don't know

I was feeling very calm and radiant before I lost my fucking iPhone (not looking for sympathy at all, just kinda miffed re loss of iPhone).

As Steve says, via Zen master Ummon, when he was sick, and someone asked him how he was, he said, "Sun-faced Buddha and moon-faced Buddha."

P.S. Poncho Peligroso is coming to Chicago next weekend and is sleeping at my house. Looks like I'll be not-sleeping/smiling a lot. Please feel free to suggest activities for Poncho, Steve, Brett Gallagher*, and I to engage in during Poncho's visit.

*Edited, bros