MARISOL, 1930-2016. You chain-smoked your way into the deepest dark or perhaps you didn't. Perhaps it crashed down to forgetting from one day to the next; not what the obit cited, but between the lines: The pneumonia of forgetting. Not all of life that much of what remained for you. What was remaining that would remember you? All those days remaining, forgetting little or as much. The loneliness and longing converging on you in a quietude, lost in your forgetting, your wanderlust, your wanderings, your daydreams anticipating night. Those dreams, sleepless and forgetting, wading your way into a driftwood tide a morning's summer light, towards everyone and everything that you remember. Those many rooms and many voices. GERARD MALANGA About the Author Gerard Malanga was born in the Bronx in 1943. His previous books of poetry are No Respect: New & Selected Poems 1964-2000 (Black Sparrow Press, 2001), and Archives Malanga (Waverly Press, 2011), a 4-volume set of fanzines comprising new poems and non-fiction. An accomplished photographer as well, his first monograph, Resistance to Memory , appeared in 1998 with an introductory essay by Ben Maddow, and a poem by Thurston Moore, followed by Screen Tests Portraits Nudes 1964-1996 (2000), Someone’s Life (2009), Souls (2010), Ghostly Berms (2012) and Photobooths (2013). Long Day's Journey into the Past, Gunnar B. Kvaran Speaks with Gerard Malanga, was published by the Astrup Fearnley Museum of Modern Art & Skira in Oslo (2008), and Gerard Malanga, a biography by Lars Movin was published in Copenhagen (2011). He is presently at work on his memoirs, In Remembrance of Things Past. Gerard Malanga lives with his cats, Sasha, Zazie, Xena and Mishkin in upstate New York. His website is gerardmalanga.net more: GERARD MALANGA & PATRICK MODIANO IN PARIS BUFFETED BY DARKENED RAINS & WHIRLING SHADOWS
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Well the clock says it's time to close now I know I have to go now ... Well, your fingers weave quick minarets Speak in secret alphabets... - excerpts from The Doors, "Soul Kitchen" “a good bad poet is more of an artist than a bad 'good' poet.” PAUL POTTS, Soho-Fitzrovia street poet (1911-1990) "Hey, baby, baby, baby he's screamin' the truth America, America's killin' its youth..." (lyrics from "Ghost Rider", by Suicide) “After dinner or lunch or whatever it was -- with my crazy 12-hour night I was no longer sure what was what -- I said, "Look, baby, I'm sorry, but don't you realize that this job is driving me crazy? Look, let's give it up. Let's just lay around and make love and take walks and talk a little. Let's go to the zoo. Let's look at animals. Let's drive down and look at the ocean. It's only 45 minutes. Let's play games in the arcades. Let's go to the races, the Art Museum, the boxing matches. Let's have friends. Let's laugh. This kind of life like everybody else's kind of life: it's killing us.” Charles Bukowski, Post Office |
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May 2018
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