* (restored/expanded)

 

‘There were boos at Cannes when Bruno Dumont’s L’humanité (1999) won three major awards. Boos perhaps because he’s self-taught, an unusual filmmaker working outside the main tradition of the French film industry, and a creator of such extraordinarily fresh work that he polarizes opinion moreso than Mr. Stone-in-the-shoe himself — Lars von Trier. Instead, Dumont — unhappy with modern art cinema (“it’s lost touch with life”) — wants his cinema to “return man to the body, to the heart, to truth”. I greatly admire his clean, organic approach and find his films intoxicating, indeed, utterly essential.

‘If you gravitate towards cinema that is more than just fickle entertainment (a rare pastime today, I know) then the haloed procession of poet filmmakers over the last century will probably have caught your interest. For me, Bruno Dumont’s cinema is refreshingly devoid of the aristocratic notions and self-referential winking that can sometimes asphyxiate modern art cinema. Dumont refuses to let meaning be obfuscated by these unfortunate traits – traits which have ghettoized modern art films to the fringes of cultural discourse. His films aren’t made as traditional entertainment nor do they exist to make money (something that must seem incomprehensible to most American filmmakers and audiences) — but how refreshing they are!

‘Bruno Dumont spent his twenties and most of his thirties working two jobs (teaching philosophy and making commercial films for local businesses) after being refused a place at the top film schools in France. His first film was for a bank surveillance company. Subsequent films dealt with heavy industry, machines in action and manufacturing procedures — basically from-a-raw-material-to-a-finished-product type films. He described the process in a 1999 interview, “I had the camera go inside the chocolate machine, which brought me one of my first emotions through film. It was beautiful to see chocolate fall down and I managed to amplify this and create emotion. People were touched to see the candy, and after that I was always trying, always searching for the emotion. I was only shooting the machines, but I was looking for the emotion in the machines.”

‘For fifteen years he shot candy manufacturing films, the building of a highway, a real estate attorney’s congress, and other seemingly banal projects. Dumont described how, looking back on this, everything he was filming, no matter how dull, became interesting, “I learnt how to make uninteresting things interesting. The way I work today is completely linked to those ten years of filming nothing.”‘ — Nick Wrigley, MoC, 2003

‘Dumont is that French director your friends have warned you about. His characters pontificate about God, death, and evil between being violated and subjugated. He shoots through a lens filter called “abject Gallic misery.” Christ-figures abound and they’re mortified enough for three crucifixions. He’s been mixing Tod Browning, Catherine Breillat and Carl th. Dreyer for over fifteen years and until recently he had but two settings: beautifully troubling and unbearably bleak. It seems however, he’s emptied the suggestion box and realized that perhaps he’d gone as far as his obsessions could carry him in his chosen mode. Maybe seven films without a single laugh was a little much? Well, fear Dumont’s unsettling vision of humanity no more: he’s trawled through his back catalogue (which includes the punishing Twentynine Palms, the transcendent Hadewijch, and the abstruse Hors Satan) and, for his eighth and most recent film, put together a hilarious remix of his greatest hits in the form of a joyfully bizarre 3-hour miniseries. Saying P’tit Quinquin is Dumont’s funniest and warmest film doesn’t count for much, but could I interest you in one of the sharpest autocritiques in recent memory? Dumont’s real trick isn’t spinning his iconic imagery for laughs, but doing so without straying from his usual mission of investigating the extent to which humans can possibly be modeled after God in the most violent imaginable terms.

‘Dumont will next helm Ma Loute, a burlesque period comedy in the vein of Li’l Quinquin co-starring Juliette Binoche, Fabrice Luchini and Valeria Bruni Tedeschi. Set at the beginning of the 20th century, in a seaside village of the North of France, the film will center around the forbidden romance between Maloute and Billie who belong to two family clans who hate each other. On one hand, there are The Belforts, modest fishermen and cannibals, and on the other, the Van Peteghems, upper-class bourgeois known for being consanguineous and crazy thieves. Embroiled in raft of mysterious disappearances, the families are being investigated by two cops.’ — collaged

 

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Stills

 

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Further

Bruno Dumont Official Website
Bruno Dumont @ IMDb
Bruno Dumont @ france culture
Bruno Dumont @ mubi
‘Bruno Dumont’s Bodies’
‘The man with two brains’
‘Films Through The Window: The Cinema Of Bruno Dumont’
‘Bruno Dumont : “Dans ‘P’tit Quinquin’, il y a tout, la déconnade et les larmes”’
‘Chiaroscuro levels of thought.’
‘Vies et passions de Bruno Dumont, cinéaste radical’
‘Dead Meat: Bruno Dumont’s P’tit Quinquin’
‘Sculpture, Bruno DUMONT, 1996’
‘HOPE LIES AT 24 FRAMES PER SECOND: Bruno Dumont’
Bruno Dumont interviewed re: ‘Hors Satan’
‘Bruno Dumont Reveals His Sense of Humor’, by Steevee
Podcast: ‘Bruno Dumont and The New French Mistake’
Video: ‘Coffret Bruno Dumont’
‘The New American Old West: Bruno Dumont’s Twentynine Palms’
‘Bruno Dumont, cinéaste de la transcendance’

 

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Extras

Interview with Bruno Dumont (2006, English subtitles)

Entretien avec Bruno Dumont (2014)

Entretien avec Bruno Dumont (2011)

MASTERCLASS avec Bruno Dumont

[Festival de Cannes : Bruno Dumont : grand prix du jury]

 

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Interview

 

Why do you make films?

BRUNO DUMONT: That’s a very simple and a very difficult question. There is a desire expressed through cinema and its methods to search and to find what’s inside of others. I would like to express my own views on the mysteries of life.

Degas has said that art is false, and one can only approach the truth through falsity. Do you think that the cinema, because it is a false medium, is best able in art to capture something like the truth?

BD: Yes, I think that all art is false. And that with art in general–talking about life in false ways–can you attain truth. Because the truth can only be expressed through lies and falseness. And those who film truth directly, in your face like seen on television, tell us nothing. Thus the work of the artist is to reveal the truth through his work. When Picasso and Braque invented Cubism, the representation was false in comparison to reality; but it was the reality of truth that they were expressing. An artist must modify reality. It is only through modification that the truth can be expressed. That’s what Degas meant when he said that art was false.

But why do you choose cinema in particular?

BD: I could have easily used painting or literature to express myself, but I think that cinema itself has the capacity to express what is invisible–and this interests me. And, also, cinema is an art of time, of the temporal. Within the perception of existence, time is the most important material of life. Therefore, cinema has a natural capacity to talk about life.

How much does it also have to do with movement as opposed to time?

BD: The movement inside of the frame, the length of the take is the art of organization, everything is time. When I shoot a take from beginning to end, this is time. The actor who moves; this is time. Therefore, all of cinema is time. The art of mise-en-scene is organizing time. The time of the actor, the time of the action, the time of waiting.

You’ve said that very few filmmakers make real cinema. What’s your definition of real cinema?

BD: It’s understanding that what cinema is — is its methods, its artistry, its possibilities. It’s not like all art. It’s understanding what art can be and do. It’s fundamentally a way of expressing oneself. It’s expressing what lies deep within our heart. At the same time, there is a lot of mystery–even in the films that I make. I think the cinema is about mystery. Most of all a spiritual mystery. That’s the most secretive, enigmatic, and foreign. Art is made up of the spiritual.

Are you a believer?

BD: No. If it’s not in man, alone, unsubmissive.

I think connected to the rapture and ecstasy of mystical experiences is the idea of renunciation and abstinence, which is the engine or tool for such an experience. Do you find that by subtracting things from your cinema you are in fact approaching that state?

BD: Yes, absolutely, there’s a connection—and there’s a moral aspect to directing. I’m searching for approaches to filmmaking that have moralistic elements to them and that comprise rules. I impose rules. For example, on the actress [Julie Sokolowski], I forbade her to eat or sleep before shooting. In the same way, I chose an aspect ratio of 1:66 that was very constricting for me, limiting the frame to exactly what’s essential. Also, I shot the film using mono sound. So these constraints that I impose on myself also impose certain choices and force us to limit ourselves. It’s true there’s a process of taking away and purifying or paring down to what’s essential. I make films with very little money, but surprisingly enough it’s not a problem. On the contrary, it’s very helpful to what I’m doing. It’s extraordinary to make a film about religious faith with an actress who has absolutely no belief in God whatsoever. But these contradictions force us to work harder. Surprisingly, I found that the more paradoxical things were, the better the film works. It’s something I don’t understand—and that I find very disturbing.

How do you position yourself in relation to an audience?

BD: My position is very paradoxical. When I’m making a film, I’m not concerned with how a spectator will respond. I’m not working to make the films accessible, but at the same time, I have a great deal of respect for the audience because I’m aware that it’s through their gaze that my film will be completed. I realize I’m an individual just like any other member of the audience, and I think if there is a dignity to cinema, it lies in the audience who receives the film and completes it.

 

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Bruno Dumont’s 12 films

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Vie de Jesus (1997)
‘In La vie de Jésus, Dumont represents the youth of today as decaying — lost and despairing — yet he’s aware that they hold the future in their hands. He wants to combat their despair, to make them understand that they are capable of inventing their own future, “What’s important is the person who watches it. He continues to live,” — Dumont said at the film’s release — “perhaps in this darkness he will see the glimmer, but I stopped, finally at the moment when the glimmer appears. I’m not a prophet, it is not for me to say anything, it is for people to do something.”‘ — MoC

Trailer

Excerpt

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L’Humanite (1999)
‘L’humanité is a film that people either seem to be locked into from the start or they just can’t abide. At the time of L’humanité’s release, Sight & Sound magazine in the UK ran a feature article with an opposing rant and rave by two writers. The rave was by Mark Cousins who talked about the “stare” of the film. He wrote, “Dumont has no pity in his eyes for his extraordinarily empathetic policeman, who seems to absorb all the evil he sees. This creates a completely gripping system of looks — icy cold looking at burning hot — which is miles away from the Film Studies categories of the gaze, the objectifying look, the invisible narrative look. The stare of L’humanité is CinemaScope Pasolini, unblinking Bresson.”‘ — MoC

Opening scene

Excerpt

 

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Twentynine Palms (2003)
‘Dumont’s third is perhaps his most polarizing film yet. If one were trying to plot where Dumont might go after his first two films, you’d be hard-pressed to plot this. It’s certainly no retread, and it marks a few important changes in Dumont’s approach. Firstly, it’s set in the USA; secondly, it features “proper actors” for the first time; and thirdly, it was written in two weeks whereas his earlier films took a number of years each. Twentynine Palms is a unique film which shows — in the simplest, bleakest terms — how senseless violence can engender further senseless violence. The visceral immediacy of this summation stays with you for days.’ — MoC

Trailer

Excerpt

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Flandres (2006)
‘Flanders is a remarkable film, though it is not an easy film to digest. This is director Bruno Dumont’s fourth feature, and like his previous films, it contains scenes of crude behavior and gruesome brutality. Flanders is relentlessly bleak, but as it works its way into your bloodstream, the aftertaste is somewhat akin to relief. It’s like a confession. For those who allow it, Flanders offers the comfort of recognition, and acceptance, of what it means to be human. Dumont refutes the notion of film as entertainment with a monk’s diligence. An austere stylist, he pares everything down to its essence, so that a film like Flanders almost doesn’t feel like a film at all. He uses nonprofessional actors, there is no music on the soundtrack, and there is very little in the way of a story. It’s a bit like what happens when we look at an abstract expressionist painting. It’s better not to try to understand the painting on an intellectual level, but to let it enter your awareness through how it makes you feel, in your gut.’ — Beverly Berning, Culture Vulture

Trailer

Excerpt

The making of Flandres

 

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Hadewijch (2009)
‘Hadewijch ends with a bang—or seems to—after which Hadewijch returns us to the convent for what at first feels like a flashback, and then like a dream (both of which would also be Dumont firsts), and which, even taken literally, ranks among the most haunting and profoundly beautiful sequences in all of Dumont’s work. It is a sequence that begins with an act of penance and builds to the long-delayed meeting between Hadewijch and a grubby-faced construction worker (Henri Cretel, who was the cuckolding friend in Flanders) labouring on the convent grounds. Like so much in Hadewijch, what happens between them can be seen as something entirely of this world or as an act of divine intervention. Either way, it reaffirms that Dumont himself is a cause very much worth believing in.’ — Scott Foundas, Cinema Scope

Excerpt

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Hors Satan (2011)
‘In Hors Satan (Outside Satan), which premiered at Un Certain Regard in 2011, a drifter (David Dewaele) who lives in a makeshift shelter on the Côte d’Opale shore (a few stacked bricks next to his campfire block the wind) has an intimate friendship with a lanky young emo girl (Alexandra Lemâtre) in a nearby town; she feeds him loaves of bread and they spend time lounging on the meadows, but to her dismay, he rebuffs her romantic advances. Their closeness deepens after he kills her stepfather, for reasons that are only hinted at (sexual abuse), unlocking a cycle of violent acts that engulfs the local community. An air of mystery surrounds the craggy-faced drifter, a man of worship twice seen kneeling in prayer in the twilight, his folded hands and rapt face echoing faded illustrations of Marian visionaries. Regarded as a spiritual healer by at least one woman, who seeks him out to minister to her catatonic teenage daughter, upon whom he performs a strangely lascivious exorcism, Dumont’s laconic anti-hero is neither divine nor demonic, despite his apparent ability (glimpsed in one eerily gorgeous sequence) to conjure fire. This dualism is never resolved; it is set to spin like a gyroscope. Though Dumont’s thematic interest in religion and morality persists from Hadewijch, the film’s reality is not the world’s. Instead, we are confronted with profane Nature — instinct and wildness, in many guises — as well as a few (supernatural) puzzles, then left to decide the undecidable for ourselves.’ — Filmmaker Magazine

Opening Scene

Excerpt

Excerpt

 

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Camille Claudel 1915 (2013)
‘There are at least three beautiful things in Bruno Dumont’s depressing new film. First, there are cinematographer Guillaume Deffontaines’s precise visual compositions. Stark and minimalist, at times they resemble classical Dutch painting. Second, there’s the film’s use of light—and Dumont’s patience with it. He employs lingering shots of the outdoor sun coming in through a gauzy window, or the light on a wall, or the shadows on a rug. Third, and most important, is Dumont’s use of light as metaphor for the radiance of Camille Claudel’s heart and soul. Camille (Juliette Binoche), one of history’s great tortured artists, is seen eking out a semblance of life in a rural lunatic asylum. From her prayers, and the look in her eyes, it’s clear that the light of God is within her. Aside from her brother, Paul (Jean-Luc Vincent), God is the only thing she can cling to. The barely-there narrative hinges upon Paul’s impending visit. Dumont surrounds Binoche with mentally handicapped actors—an unsettling choice that heightens the sense that Camille does not deserve her fate. He also makes Paul something of a heartless loon, so that when his much-anticipated visit takes place, it’s not long before Camille makes a scene, confirming her brother’s worst fears. Paul, in fact, has had a transfiguring experience, triggered by reading Rimbaud, and his own obsessive Catholic patter makes him seem even more off his rocker than Camille. It’s an impossibly hopeless situation, yet Dumont’s craft and Binoche’s face somehow achieve transcendence.’ — Film Comment

Trailer

Excerpt

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P’tit Quinquin (2014)
‘The thing you’ll remember about P’tit Quinquin, over even the most perfectly timed joke or the adorably misshapen head of Quinquin, is the face of Bernard Pruvost, as the detective protecting his flock from the murderer. Pruvost looks like Albert Einstein and has a facial tic that causes his face to move involuntarily in very noticable ways, meaning he delivers something like four reactions for every stimuli and sometimes more. He’s a real-world cartoon in Dumont’s hands, a man who never stifles his attempts at respectability, even though they’re constantly rejected. His attempts at yelling at some kids about highway safety are thwarted when his partner turns their car in the wrong direction with his head still hanging out the window. Upon learning of the state of the first victim, he muses, more to himself than anyone listening: “Headless…so I need the head, basically.” However funny he is, there is an undeniable sadness to Pruvost’s character, a man unable to stop his town from succumbing to the slowly encroaching darkness. A long take late in the film finds him sitting and listening to the church organist play only for him, his face soaking with sadness. He’s as much cop as activist priest, fighting the devil one sin at a time, preserving an innocence that isn’t his to protect. He’s this season’s most offbeat detective, beating out even Joaquin Phoenix’s coke-snorting Doc Sportello in Inherent Vice.’ — Scout Tafoya

Trailer

Excerpt

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Slack Bay (2016)
‘“Slack Bay” is a gestural burlesque of passion and rage, of tense manners yielding to furious desires, of carefully constructed appearances warped and rent by the constant and hidden force of the unspeakable, of a society that depends on radically maintained differences and distinctions that don’t hold up against relentless natural forces—and even of a metaphysical sense of wonder that distills the grand peculiarity of the whole crazy scheme into mysteries of a holy absurdity.’ — Richard Brody, The New Yorker

Trailer

Excerpt

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The Childhood of Joan of Arc (2017)
‘Pitched somewhere between Straub-Huillet and Headbangers Ball, Monty Python and Messiaen, Bruno Dumont’s new feature Jeannette, l’enfance de Jeanne d’Arc marks an unexpected and near-perfect synthesis of the French iconoclast’s many disparate interests and obsessions. Jeannette speaks most fully to both Dumont’s aleatoric process and his ideological constitution, traits which here find thrilling release in the form of a musical comedy inspired by the early life of France’s most famous martyr. Joining a long tradition of Joan of Arc films, Jeannette is unique amongst its forebears by the mere fact of its circumscribed vantage. While films by Bresson, Dreyer, Rivette, and Preminger have focused on Joan’s battlefield perils, her trial on charges of witchcraft and heresy, and eventual death at the stake at the age of 19, Dumont’s story centres on an adolescent Jeanne, from the throes of her spiritual awakening to her decision to leave home and take up arms. By reimagining the perspective of the prescribed Joan of Arc narrative, Dumont has in the process performed a keen bit of art-historical reconciliation, reframing the image of a woman whose life and legacy have been defined most often by her fate, rather than the complexities of her character.’ — Jordan Cronk

Trailer

Excerpt

 

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France (2021)
‘Is Bruno Dumont transitioning yet again? This was a dark melodrama and social satire – a damning critique of the parasitic nature of modern journalism. The best material here could easily have been whittled down to more trenchant effect, while the narrative is too twisty and digressive to sustain itself… What he’s attempting here is a new meshing of his broader comic style and the stark moral questioning that has always characterised his dramas – and while the attempt to juggle several registers should be applauded, the result is too irregular to really gel.’ — Jonathan Romney

Trailer

France – Q&A with Bruno Dumont

 

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The Empire (2024)
‘The Empire, on the one hand, plays like a Star Wars spoof, and on the other is a natural extension of Dumont’s transcendent style, spiked with crude sexuality and freak-show mysticism à la Twin Peaks. There are lightsabers, intergalactic travels, a Light Side and a Dark Side led by humanoid warriors—or, rather, space creatures that take on the bodies of provincial townies in the north of France. On Earth, an innocuous-looking child known as “the Wain” embodies all the evil in the universe. Members of the Dark Side, including the Wain’s father, a louche fisherman; an iPhone-obsessed floozy; and a wild-eyed space jester played by Fabrice Luchini, are tasked with protecting the child. Adherents to the Light Side—a bikini-clad Jedi (Anamaria Vartolomei) and her sparrow-faced sidekick—must destroy the kid. Dumont pokes fun at the absolutism that dictates these warring factions, split between 0s and 1s, staging executions of random locals that come off as completely arbitrary (if only to us mere mortals). The banality of the Opal Coast countryside—with its cows, lazy cops, and junkyard aesthetics—assumes an awesome power thanks to Dumont’s dazzling wide compositions, creating humorous parallels between base human activities and celestial journeys. Ultimately, these mythologies devolve into nothingness, with the action (in the finale, a spaceship showdown) subsumed into a magnificent black hole, a void not unlike the serene indifference, the boredom, of quiet country folk.’ — Beatrice Loayza

Trailer

Explorez le VFX breakdown du film L’Empire, de Bruno Dumont

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** jay, Hey. That last ‘Alien’ movie is good? I suspected otherwise from afar, but I can’t remember why. Huh. ‘Blink Twice’ sounds like it definitely deserves at least a peek. Thanks, bud. ‘HHU’ is pricey? Even the Harper Collins one? That sucks. The Todd James version of ‘The Sluts’ is so much better. The cover of the normal version has always made me cringe. Low end homoerotic blah. Thanks about ‘French Hole’. Yeah, there are the entrances of some new secret passages to the whole there if one is looking for them. ‘La Chimera’, I don’t know it. Okay, another add, and it sounds like a top of the list prospect. Thanks a lot. You doing Xmas tonight or in the morning? If I were doing one, it would be tomorrow morning, USA style. ** Misanthrope, Paper Mario is maybe my favorite game franchise. The newest one, which is the one I’m playing right now, ‘Paper Mario: The Origami King’, is a blast. I liked Dylan when I was a teen and when he still doing his whole visionary thing. Plus I found Rimbaud through him because he referenced him in an interview way back. So, I guess I owe him. Owe him enough not to watch Chalamet try to make ‘meaningful’ faces in a sad attempt to be him. But to each his own, always and forever. ** _Black_Acrylic, ‘Hellraiser 2’ is a goody, Philip hit the mark. Literally my only plan for Xmas tomorrow is to listen to the new PT, so lucky me, all in all. ** Meg Gluth, Hey, Meg! I’m not allowed to share the details on the World Premiere quite yet, but I think I can say it’ll happen at the beginning of April. Yeah, I love our film, but, Jesus, has it been an endless struggle to get it into the birth canal. What Oscar has reported sounds mega. Meg-a, haha. I’ll watch for a local Claire concert, for sure. I would love to meet her. I hope she gets over here. I’m playing ‘Paper Mario: The Origami King’. It’s great, so clever and constantly inventive. Very Merry Xmas to you tomorrow however that may play out. ** Daniel, And you did get through, maestro. And thank for whatever effort it took. ** Charalampos, Your mom’s phone did the trick, I guess. No, no Xmas plans whatsoever. A walk in the quiet. Otherwise, the same old sans open stores. I assume that food you’re going to eat will be rather spectacular after three months’ preparation. Either that or an inedible antique. I would have to go back and look at your book to pick faves since I read it, gosh, months and months ago now. Your two formal methods of poem writing sound to have much potential. Love back from the middle of France. ** Malik, Hey! Awesome to have you around. Are things going well and interestingly with the theater company? Any recent works or things therein that have especially excited you? Okay, well, I’ll just memorise the name of the short film and hopefully have its bell rung if the film ever gets in my vicinity. Sounds quite interesting. Yeah, really sad and so unexpected loss: Ka. I guess at least he went out firing on all cylinders, as they say. Have a happy Xmas. ** James, I’m glad I made you read a bunch poems. MDMA, the band … their very early stuff is fun, but then they kind of lost it, imo. ‘Haikyuu!’ is news. I’ll look at it. Thanks. I’ve always been tall. I used to get bullied in elementary school because I was so tall but such a wuss. It’s a mixed blessing. No reason to romanticise tallness. I have not yet eaten custard donuts because it requires me taking the metro a ways and then walking a ways to the Krispy Kreme, and I didn’t feel it yesterday. However, I have plans located near the Krispy Kreme today, and I need something sweet to eat on Xmas, so, barring me breaking my leg or something, I should have donuts in tow by tonight. I do like custard, yes, as you can tell. Well, you felt very good leaving college, which that photo made most clear. Merriest Xmas humanly or divinely possible to us both. ** Lucas, Hi. Shit, eek, about your mom, but phew that she’s de-hospitalised. Enjoy your Xmas. Do your very best to, or, more importantly, I hope your company does their very best to give you one. Thanks for the card! It’s lovely. I only got one mailed Xmas card this year. I didn’t even get my annual John Waters Xmas card. Well, not yet anyway. There’s still the mail to come today. I really don’t think anything you write could be corny. Trust the feedback. Awesome! ** Steeqhen, ‘Hotboxed’ is a kind of cool word. I’m going to use it today and see what people’s faces look like when I use it. I liked ‘The Simpsons’ too. Maybe I liked ‘South Park’ even more. In fact I still like ‘South Park’. Happy you’re writing poetry. My Xmas is and looks to be very kind of nothing, which is fine really. The weather is cold, 6 degrees C, and kind of a grayish blue. No rain yet today. Snow would be nice, but it sure doesn’t look to be in offing. Happy Xmas Eve! ** Adem Berbic, Hey! The 26th should be A-okay for me and ideally for Zac too. I’ll check re: him. Just shoot me a reminder around then. Yes, believe or not, we finally got rid our film’s monster. We are left shouldering all the debt and problems that the monster caused, which is a headache, but the monster is gone, and the film is free! Cool about Alex. I’ll watch my box. Until soon and then slightly less soon then. Hugs from me with an appropriately Xmas-y overlay. ** Tyler Ookami, Ooh, a ‘new Merzbouw’. That sounds like fun. Zorn, Patton, genre jumping .. gotcha. Vampillia sounds amazing! I’ll get that. I know Tujiko Noriko, she’s worked with Gisele Vienne and me sometimes. Wow, thanks a lot! My first five books were published in Japan, and I had a following over there for a while. That was fun, needless to say. ** Florian Ayala Fauna, Hi, Florian! Cool to see you, and happiest holidays to you too. No, no holidays plans almost whatsoever. Oh, wow, that book you worked on looks very cool. The cover is great. I’m excited for it. Everyone, The amazing artist Florian Ayala Fauna made a lot of collage illustrations for the writer C. L. Methvin’s new short story collection, and you can take a peek at it here. Great stuff, pal. So nice to see you. Have a fun tonight and tomorrow whatever that involves. ** Steve, Gotcha. I have nothing planned at all for tomorrow. I expect it to be ultra-quiet and to enjoy that and whatever that causes me to do, which will probably just be what I always do. Solidarity Cinema is a find, yeah. Someone here turned me onto it. I only know a little Ethel Cain and not enough to know the scoop. Sounds like complicated scoop, which appeals. I’ll listen further, thanks. ** HaRpEr, Hi. Oh, thank you so much. ‘Studying Hunger’ is great. So sorry about the sickness, but I’m glad you used the qualifier ‘little’ at least. Half of the people here are sniffling and blowing their noses. Being on the metro feels kind of kamikaze. Be anthropological, always a saving grace. East Grinstead sounds very peculiar indeed. I’ll look it up, and down too. I think I get what you mean. I literally sort of feel like I haven’t changed much since I was a teenager, so it’s hard to separate my current self from who I was. I’m less moody mostly, I think. And I guess less reckless? That said, I think if you have forgotten who you were to some degree, whatever it takes to get you to remember that early version of you is going to be good for your work and probably your whole life shebang. Maybe? ** Bill, Since the holiday mostly just means all the stores are going to be closed, I’m mostly just making sure to use the stores before they shut me out for a day. Okay, I do know Skylla, Gastr del Sol, and Radian, yes, but I swear there were a bunch of complete unknowns in there. I swear to ‘God’. ** Joseph, Thanks, man. Well, there it was, and you didn’t even have to pay for it. Well, of course, about ‘Casey Anthony’. I ain’t no fool. Err, I’ll go back and find your list in that previous post. I never ever look backwards in the blog until I’m tipped to. Enjoy the road. Like … on the road for a week? Like Kerouac-ian? Thank you for the Bukowski poem. I must admit I’m not the hugest fan of his stuff in general, but I did see him read three different times back in the day, and he was awfully good (and awfully drunk) live. HX! ** Justin D, Thanks, pal. I will read Ottessa Moshfegh. A lot of people I know read her. She did a group reading in LA with some writer friends of mine, and everyone was supposed to read for ten minutes, and she read for more than an hour, and she wouldn’t stop even though people were yelling at her to stop. I thought that was interesting (and a little obnoxious). Someone else just recommended ‘Bird’ to me. I’m on it, thank you. I don’t know why I just assumed you would have a real Xmas tree. But I meant thinking that to be a compliment. Thanks for the Xmas song. I’ll hit it in a minute. I really need something get me in the mood. Happy happy! ** Darby𓃱𓃱, Hey! Spring rolls … yum. I don’t know where you can get good spring rolls here, but such a place must exist. My favorite Tim Buckleys are ‘Lorca’ and ‘Starsailor’, so, cool. Promising haircut. Tell me how it feels when you know how it feels and feel communicative about that. Haha, imagine growing up with Elton John songs playing constantly wherever you went. It was pure horror. I envy your Ramen. I’m going to eat custard donuts, but if I had a headache, I wouldn’t. ** Right. I decided to restore and expand the blog’s old Bruno Dumont Day for you today for whatever reason. Please have at it. Also, since I have no Xmas planned whatsoever, I will be here with a new post tomorrow, so, if you have nothing better to do and want a place to hang, see you then.

 

 

 

Redeemed Area
by John Ashbery

Do you know where you live? Probably.

Abner is getting too old to drive but won’t admit it.

The other day he got in his car to go buy some cough drops

of a kind they don’t make anymore. And the drugstore

has been incorporated into a mall about seven miles away

with only about half the stores rented. There are three

other malls within a four-mile area. All the houses

are owned by the same guy, who’s been renting

them out to college students for years, so they are virtually uninhabitable.

A smell of vitriol and socks pervades the area

like an open sewer in a souk. Anyway the cough drops

(a new brand) tasted pretty good-like catnip

or an orange slice that has lain on a girl’s behind.

That’s the electrician calling now

nobody else would call before 7 A.M. Now we’ll have some

electricity in the place. I’ll start by plugging in

the Christmas tree lights. They were what made the whole thing

go up in sparks the last time. Next, the light

by the dictionary stand, so I can look some words up.

Then probably the toaster. A nice slice

of toast would really hit the spot now. I’m afraid it’s all over

between us, though. Make nice, like you really cared,

I’ll change my chemise, and we can dance around the room

like demented dogs, eager for a handout or they don’t

know what. Gradually, everything will return to normal, I

promise you that. There’ll be things for you to write about

in your diary, a fur coat for me, a lavish shoe tree for that other.

Make that two slices. I can see you only through a vegetal murk

not unlike coral, if it were semi-liquid, or a transparent milkshake.

I have adjusted the lamp;

morning’s at seven,

the tarnish has fallen from the metallic embroidery, the walls have fallen,

the country’s pulse is racing. Parents are weeping,

the schools have closed.

All the fuss has put me in a good mood,

O great sun.

 

It Is Like a Christmas Card
by Alice Notley

It is like a Christmas card,
except it is real and I
am seeng it, and it is far
more beautiful than any pic-
ture, if it is real.

 

Santa
by Donald Britton

Santa is the incomplete
Embodiment of our charity. Poor Santa,
His many bodies minted
Of human waste, his voice the choir
Of his own need. I feel so empty,
By myself, whispering my lists
In Santa’s spiral ear, while he lists
Slightly to one side like skeet
Propelled into the air by a device
No human hand has touched, so obsolete
Is effort when a dime skims ice.
Emit a cry for every useless thing:
Abundant padding so contrived
No one of us shall feel deprived.

 

Ranting
by Megan Green

ranting, pathetic insecurities, overwhelm the Christmas tree, and you promise
me a utopia, a sort of subsequential America,
where we’ll fuck & eat & play the craps, Las
Vegas is the only place it’ll happen, &
yet the nameless, intrude like a swarm of fucking locusts
feasting upon the Satin drape of my finest
face, I believe your chest most of all, that’s where
the dragon begins, & the sigh
spills from my eyes. Dead petals favour the corners. Gathering
like they have plans.

 

Making the Best of the Holidays
by James Tate

Justine called on Christmas day to say she
was thinking of killing herself. I said, “We’re
in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could
you possibly call back later, that is, if you’re
still alive.” She was furious with me and called
me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify
by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned
to the joyful task of opening presents. Everyone
seemed delighted with what they got, and that
definitely included me. I placed a few more logs
on the fire, and then the phone rang again. This
time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his
pills and washed them down with a quart of gin.
“Sleep it off, Hugh,” I said, “I can barely under-
stand you, you’re slurring so badly. Call me
tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas.” The roast
in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing
with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big
Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was
Debbie. “I hate you,” she said. “You’re the most
disgusting human being on the planet.” “You’re
absolutely right,” I said, “and I’ve always been
aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie.”
Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but
this time Loni answered it. When she came back
to the table she looked pale. “Who was it?” I
asked. “It was my mother,” she said. “And what
did she say?” I asked. “She said she wasn’t my
mother,” she said.

 

[older I get]
by Wayne Koestenbaum

older I get, more serious I become
—-about wearing
—-makeup and wig.
caftan, too. always interested in a rub, kind sir:
—-love yr eyebrows.
—-admittedly, my pix
—-disguise age.
mix turquoise, king’s blue, bluish purple: impose mix
—-on passive quinacridone
—-violet’s impersonality.
try to figure out how clearly delineated
—-“subject positions” find
—-angles of mutual
—-pleasurable engagement without
—-destroying each other.

Joan Rivers baking Xmas cookies seen sideways
—-through tunnel window’s
—-mirror lake Simi-
—-lac® simulacrum.
“this administration is the worst thing to happen
—-to orange since
—-Agent Orange,” quips pundit.
every novel I love is fragile. red stars
—-on black duffel bag
—-triangulate with
—-Lynn Redgrave’s in-
—-dependent sources of self-
—-esteem, not harvested from Lear.
wrongly seeking sublimity in barn-roof gutter crevice.

lucent ceiling corrugations a dauphinois
—-potato when his Pompeii
—-gaze claims me, then disappears.
kouros-carved lips, stone lingerie, scandal
—-pudding: congregated
—-shames comprise a menu.
hives on my calves, awaiting Purim-Benadryl’s
—-alleviation: sob-collapse
—-throws ash on coffin
—-lowered: crowded town
—-car back from cemetery
—-to capers, cream cheese.

abstract expressionism is what happened at the hospital:
—-fools disputing climate
—-change, Tiffany
—-blue establishing shot’s
—-concentrated inattention.
“I’m glad you gave up the figure,” she said:
—-but I haven’t
—-stopped pursuing nudes.
to be the dread golem, aloof in Prague, boning
—-up on feuilletonisme,
—-Eton pea-coat toggles
—-unclasping gelt-Jocasta.

 

Balloons
by Sylvia Plath

Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk

Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish—
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.

 

Sonnet 8
by Edwin Denby

Three old sheepherders so filthy in their ways
Whores wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole
Saw once the Christmas star which in a blaze
Pierced like delight into the secret soul.

They later also stood with their same faces
Around a baby male and there were shown
The heart caressing with millennial graces
A beauty which in love is all its own.

These three were the first according to the story
But unbaptized they never will reach heaven
In an eternal hell tortured and gory
They can recall the joy that they were given,

This savage torture by the law of love
Of Christmas shepherds I like thinking of.

 

 

I’ll Be Me and You Be Goethe
by Heather Christie

I want it to be winter and I want to change
the color of this room This room should be
a blue room and it should be freezing
but ventilated and I in my medium snowsuit
irresistible I know because everything I do
I do to get more beautiful so you will want
to love me in the cold and indoor morning

 

Christmas Poem
by Dick Gallup

Your eyes give a little bit
—————-You know
Though your hands
Take you away
Into a distance filling with blue fir trees
Cool and fragrant as the sea
Vacationing in an upland meadow
You have a magical green necklace
When You put it on you are like a tree

Today I call you Lady Santa
From your firm green breasts
Spring Christmas Tree nipples!
Lady Santa!
I call your name wildly in the night
You are the one who brings Fortune to poets
You fill the kids’ stockings
You are the ink in my pen
The yeast in my bread
The best in my bed
You have a giant living room
And you don’t even have a house
I’m going to call you on the telephone
I’m going to call you on a real telephone

When you go away
—–It’s time for the horror show
Time to hang around weird scenes
Time to fuck up the machinery
—–Like big hairy factories
I end up making smoke
And finally going out
—–On strike
And you are the most beautiful of the scabs
And put me back to just walking down the street

There is a blue fire in the wheels of your eyes
Deep blue flaming night lights
You hold comfort and easy dreams
No leaky faucets in your kitchen
You give me screaming fits of sheer adulation
You come toward me on the winter streets
—–Ringing your bell
And you are all the bells ringing
Christmas and New Years in a clean shirt
You make me think of padded cells on the moon
And going to the Excelsior Hotel
—–In Venice
————–In a balloon
You are a goddess on a god’s birthday
Your voice is on the radio when I turn it off
You are your own electricity
And you turn me on

 

What I’d Like For Christmas, 1970
by Ted Berrigan

Black brothers to get happy
The Puerto Ricans to say hello
The old folks to take it easy &
as it comes
The United States to get straight
Power to butt out
Money to fuck off
Business with honor
Religion
& Art
Love
A home
A typewriter
A GUN.

 

Advent
by Rae Armantrout

In front of the craft shop,
a small nativity,
mother, baby, sheep
made of white
and blue balloons.

*

Sky
god
girl.

Pick out the one
that doesn’t belong.

*

Some thing

close to nothing
flat
from which,

fatherless,
everything has come.

 

Look at My Head, It’s a Pumpkin with a Candle in It
by Keegan Crawford

What is on your bed right now?
I laid there for fifteen minutes with my face down into the pillow.
I imagined how I looked from another person’s point of view
and I looked dead, in a humorous way.
What is your favorite holiday?
The tree was fake and everyone was acting like the tree.
If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?
The drop was five stories, so I didn’t look down. I just looked forward.
Have you ever been camping?
I don’t know why people are scared of wolves. ‘Blood thirsty killing machine’ is a false phrase. They are not robots and they drink water.
What was the last thing you ate?
I am not a blood thirsty killing machine. I just wanted to clarify that.
Do you have any regrets?
Flowers die 100% percent of the time. I still like flowers, though.

 

Psychoanalysis: An Elegy (Excerpt)
by Jack Spicer

I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer
As slow getting started
As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza
After a lot of unusual rain
California seems long in the summer.
I would like to write a poem as long as California
And as slow as a summer.
Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow
As the very tip of summer.
As slow as the summer seems
On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside
Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road
Between Bakersfield and Hell
Waiting for Santa Claus.

 

Christmas at the Orphanage
by Bill Knott

But if they’d give us toys and twice the stuff
most parents splurge on the average kid,
orphans, I submit, need more than enough;
in fact, stacks wrapped with our names nearly hid
the tree where sparkling allotments yearly
guaranteed a lack of—what?—family?—

I knew exactly what it was I missed:
(did each boy there feel the same denials?)
to share my pals’ tearing open their piles
meant sealing the self, the child that wanted
to scream at all You stole those gifts from me;
whose birthday is worth such words? The wish-lists
they’d made us write out in May lay granted
against starred branches. I said I’m sorry.

 

 

Season’s Greetings
by Ron Padgett

The holidays are said
to give one a chance
to get in touch with others
but what held back that chance
the rest of the year?
What it means is
that the holidays are a time
when we should behave
like other people, as if
in junior high school,
jury duty, or the Army,
whereas what Philip Whalen
wanted was to take a holiday
from holidays, and then
he wavered, beautifully.

 

Kage’s First Xmas
by Ben Mirov

I am thinking of him and her having sex. I am thinking of them having really great sex, probably in front of a mirror. I am alone in the house. The TV is on, but everyone is asleep. I am about to turn twenty-one. When I turn twenty-one I am going to put on snowshoes. I am going to put on snowshoes and walk as far as I can into the snow. Once I am out in the snow I am going to sit down. I will probably sit in the snow for a long time. I’ll bring a sandwich and some juice. When I return to the house it will be Xmas morning. I will take off my snowshoes and I will tell my family my new name. I will say, On advent of my twenty-first birthday I have taken a new name. Henceforth I shall be called Kage. Kage with a K and not a C. From now on I will only answer to the name Kage. Thank you very much, and then I will walk out of the room. Then I will probably take a shower because I will be cold from sitting in the snow. I will walk into the bathroom and take off all my clothes and look at my body in the mirror. I will probably flex a little. Kage likes his new body. Then I will take a long shower. I will wash every part of my body, including my asshole and my ears and toes. Every part of my body will be clean. Then I will get out of the shower and go have Xmas. I will open my presents and say, Kage does not want this. Kage has no use for a Playstation. Kage does wear sweaters.

 

untitled
by Megan Boyle

everything i touch is going to be a fossil some day my dad still hasn’t taken down his christmas decorations

i walked to his refrigerator and immediately unwrapped and ate a square of american cheese

if i drop a toothpick i’m pretty sure it will remain where it fell for three days

not sure what happens after that.

 

Xmas Poem: Bolinas
by Robert Creeley

All around
the snow
don’t fall.

Come Christmas
we’ll get high
and go find it.

 

Christmas Tree
by James Merrill

To be
Brought down at last
From the cold sighing mountain
Where I and the others
Had been fed, looked after, kept still,
Meant, I knew—of course I knew—
That it would be only a matter of weeks,
That there was nothing more to do.
Warmly they took me in, made much of me,
The point from the start was to keep my spirits up.
I could assent to that. For honestly,
It did help to be wound in jewels, to send
Their colors flashing forth from vents in the deep
Fragrant sables that cloaked me head to foot.
Over me then they wove a spell of shining—
Purple and silver chains, eavesdropping tinsel,
Amulets, milagros: software of silver,
A heart, a little girl, a Model T,
Two staring eyes. Then angles, trumpets, BUD and BEA
(The children’s names) in clownlike capitals,
Somewhere a music box whose tiny song
Played and replayed I ended before long
By loving. And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV
To keep the show going. Yes, yes, what lay ahead
Was clear: the stripping, the cold street, my chemicals
Plowed back into the Earth for lives to come—
No doubt a blessing, a harvest, but one that doesn’t bear,
Now or ever, dwelling upon. To have grown so thin.
Needles and bone. The little boy’s hands meeting
About my spine. The mother’s voice: Holding up wonderfully!
No dread. No bitterness. The end beginning. Today’s
Dusk room aglow
For the last time
With candlelight.
Faces love-lit
Gifts underfoot.
Still to be so poised, so
Receptive. Still to recall, praise.

 

Love Poem
by Louise Glück

There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.

 

THE BLIND SEE ONLY THIS WORLD (A Christmas Card)
by John Wieners

Today the Lamb of God arrives in the mail
above the Cross, beside the Handsome Sailor
from Russia
in his turtleneck sweater. Today we make love
in our minds.
And women come to fore, winning the field.

It is Christmas, Hanukkah,–heritages we leave
behind
in israel.

There is a new cross in the wind, and it is our

minds, imagination, will

where the discovery is made

of how to pass the night, how to share the gift

of love, our bodies, which is true
illumination
of the present instant.

There is no other journey to make. We receive all
we need.

Without insight, we remain blind.
Without vision, we see only this world.

 

Drivers Dividers
by Bernadette Mayer

D R I V E R S white of white line 10 to 6
shut off line this coach is TOLL MACHINE
motors white restroom equipped
while loading line for your convenience
buses white cigarette smoking
S A V E T I R E S line permitted
Keep wheels on white unless prohibited
Straight line un line by law
til passing over white we’re getting
treadle before line there you’re out of
cutting left white drinking intoxicants
P A S S E N G E R S line on coach prohibited
are met in the white on the
main waiting room line way
U P S T A I R S white express lane
SHELTER SHELTER SH line No Standing
Back in U.S.S.R. white W. 41 St.
chipped Martha, My line One Way
Dear chipped, as if white Tow
eaten line It is now 5:25 Away
Departures … for … white Zone
W O R K line Your Operator
A R E A white Safe Reliable
A H E A D line Courteous CHECK OUT
Free Baggage white PAY here
checking line LEFT THAN
No Tipping Required white and buses only
D.O.T. regulations line THIS LANE
require passengers white Season’s
to stand back line Greetings
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House of Chrome line u u Mr. Milk
tinted green white v v Keeps your car
50¢ makeup line w w on the go Atlantic
cars only sleep white x x Cable TV
HOBOKEN green line y y 12 channels
THIS LANE sleep white z z Special Offer
$6.25 green line Xmas Xmas placemats
When you’re out of Holiday House white Count your LEE
Schlitz line two lights are Change AS YOU
the same two lights white Keep Right TRAVEL
beer a a line Pass Left Only ASK US
To a smoker b b white Here she said
it’s a c c line her is a tube from one
Ken d d white less cigar You to the
PARK AVE. e e line know how she other
UNION CITY f f white explained that but one
a whole g g line one to me Its a is more
new kind h h white cigar she said than the other
of bag i i line that hasn’t got STOP LINE
GIVE THE j j white anything left STOP LINE
WASHED VODKA k k line to it de cinquante
DONT 8:45 l l white LETOM cinq
WALK Rose Garden m m line I cant swipe the
I like your skirt n n white great American
so do I o o line hunchback horses Get back
your sash is p p white where you were before
beautiful q q line The Rest
RIDGE DODGE r r white Get Back
Fiesta Banquet s s line LENOX—-
Room t t white toll booth no. 1

 

 

All the Lovers
by Kevin Killian

Outside the Disney Concert Hall,
Kylie has summoned a clutch of cold models in white underwear,

They clamber on white boxes pitching for the sky

Somehow she appears in a dream sequence,

Boys and girls kiss and poke and struggle for love

In California, where the major candidates for governor and senator
live the lavish lives of Roman emperors,

Carly Fiorina, like Nero, bought a violin
for everyone on her Christmas list, from Cremona,

her wood golden and thin as hair,

81 per cent of voters don’t care how wealthy a
candidate is

You have to be rich to flourish

What came first, the wifebeater or the social system
that allowed ever and ever more flourish

In the face of a liverish social despair
all the lovers who have gone before

they don’t compare to you

 

i am a big dumbass bear on christmas morning
by partrik

holy shit a house

im gonna look inside the fucking window

who the fuck is this dumbass family in this house

if i wanted to i could bust in there and eat every one of these fuckers

look at this little fucker opening a present

oh look its a fire truck big deal ass monkey

when are these shit hats gonna fucking notice the bear at their window

hey bitch you forgot to look in your stocking

there you go

lol bubba wubba and chocolate give her a fucking toothbrush mom and dad

when are they gonna see me and chase me away

damn thats a lot of wrapping paper

lol that kitten is playing in it what a retard

oh shit they see me

“im not gonna hurt you or eat you”

but it sounds like “roar roar roar” to them cause im a big dumbass fucking bear

dad thats a big ass gun

dont shoot me think of all the fun times

like when watched your lovely family open presents on christmas

oh shit he took a warning shot im gonna run away

there is no presents under any of the trees of the woods of the world for me

why arent i hibernating

 

in a string of christmas lights that is blinking all year long
by Diana Salier

for christmas i get a new magic set and a big plastic stealth bomber that opens up and holds fifty little metal stealth bombers. i wear footie pajamas that zip all the way to my neck. the big plastic stealth bomber has a runway to practice takeoffs and landings. i sit on the carpet in my onesie and make the grey and green stealth bombers crash into each other so that all the pilots inside will die. i can’t finish card tricks or make the red balls disappear so i wear my black felt magician’s hat and walk around pulling rabbits out of things. i drive to my first girlfriend’s house. we drink wine and leave the bottles in the door of her parents’ car. on the way back to my house i text her all i want for christmas is you. at home a string of christmas lights blinks erratically. i fall asleep clearing the rubble off the runway.

 

December
by James Schuyler

The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound,
this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center.
I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs
the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments
recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey.
Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event”
and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance
to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all
the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops
and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation
of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids,
Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends
It’s like what George and I were talking about, the East West
Coast divide: Californians need to do a thing to enjoy it.
A smile in the street may be loads! you don’t have to undress everybody.
“You didn’t visit the Alps?”
“No, but I saw from the train they were black
and streaked with snow.”
Having and giving but also catching glimpses
hints that are revelations: to have been so happy is a promise
and if it isn’t kept that doesn’t matter. It may snow
falling softly on lashes of eyes you love and a cold cheek
grow warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

 

Molly Is Asked
by Ron Koertge

to be in the Christmas pageant. She tells
me this standing in the door of what we
laughingly call my study.

“But I don’t want to be Mary,” she says.
“I want to be the guy.”

That makes me look up from my bills.
“Joseph?”

“The innkeeper. I want to slam the door
in Joseph’s face.”

She’s eight. I wonder if we’ll look back
on this next year and laugh. Or will she
want to be Herod and we’ll have to take
her little brother and flee.

 

Talking Turkeys
by Benjamin Zephaniah

Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas
Cos’ turkeys just wanna hav fun
Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked
An every turkey has a Mum.
Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas,
Don’t eat it, keep it alive,
It could be yu mate, an not on your plate
Say, Yo! Turkey I’m on your side.
I got lots of friends who are turkeys
An all of dem fear christmas time,
Dey wanna enjoy it, dey say humans destroyed it
An humans are out of dere mind,
Yeah, I got lots of friends who are turkeys
Dey all hav a right to a life,
Not to be caged up an genetically made up
By any farmer an his wife.

Turkeys just wanna play reggae
Turkeys just wanna hip-hop
Can yu imagine a nice young turkey saying,
‘I cannot wait for de chop’,
Turkeys like getting presents, dey wanna watch christmas TV,
Turkeys hav brains an turkeys feel pain
In many ways like yu an me.

I once knew a turkey called…Turkey
He said “Benji explain to me please,
Who put de turkey in christmas
An what happens to christmas trees?”,
I said “I am not too sure turkey
But itÕs nothing to do wid Christ Mass
Humans get greedy an waste more dan need be
An business men mek loadsa cash’.

Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas
Invite dem indoors fe sum greens
Let dem eat cake an let dem partake
In a plate of organic grown beans,
Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas
An spare dem de cut of de knife,
Join Turkeys United an dey’ll be delighted
An yu will mek new friends ‘FOR LIFE’.

 

Pretty Convincing
by Tim Dlugos

Talking to my friend Emily, whose drinking
patterns and extravagance of personal
feeling are a lot like mine, I’m pretty
convinced when she explains the things we do
while drinking (a cocktail to celebrate the new
account turns into a party that lasts till 3
a.m. and a terrific hangover) indicate
a problem of a sort I’d not considered.
I’ve been worried about how I metabolize
the sauce for four years, since my second bout
of hepatitis, when I kissed all the girls
at Christmas dinner and turned bright yellow
Christmas night, but never about whether
I could handle it. It’s been more of a given,
the stage set for my life as an artistic queer,
as much of a tradition in these New York circles
as incense for Catholics or German
shepherds for the blind. We re-enact
the rituals, and our faces, like smoky icons
in a certain light, seem to learn nothing
but understand all. It comforts me
yet isn’t all that pleasant, like drinking
Ripple to remember high school. A friend
of mine has been drinking in the same bar for decades,
talking to the same types, but progressively
fewer blonds. Joe LeSueur says he’s glad
to have been a young man in the Fifties with his
Tab Hunter good looks, because that was the image
men desired; now it’s the Puerto Rican
angel with great eyes and a fierce fidelity
that springs out of machismo, rather than a moral
choice. His argument is pretty convincing, too,
except lots of the pretty blonds I’ve known
default by dying young, leaving the field
to the swarthy. Cameron Burke, the dancer
and waiter at Magoo’s, killed on his way home from
the Pines when a car hit his bike on the Sunrise Highway.
Henry Post dead of AIDS, a man I thought would be around
forever, surprising me by his mortality the way
I was surprised when I heard he was not
the grandson of Emily Post at all, just pretending,
like the friend he wrote about in Playgirl, Blair Meehan,
was faking when he crashed every A List party for a year
by pretending to be Kay Meehan’s son, a masquerade
that ended when a hostess told him “Your mother’s here”
and led him by the hand to the dowager—Woman, behold
thy son—underneath a darkening conviction that all,
if not wrong, was not right. By now Henry may have faced
the same embarrassment at some cocktail party in the sky.
Stay as outrageously nasty as you were. And Patrick
Mack, locked into memory as he held court in the Anvil
by the downstairs pinball machine, and writhing
as he danced in Lita Hornick’s parlor when the Stimulators
played her party, dead last week of causes I don’t know,
as if the cause and not the effect were the problem.
My blond friend Chuck Shaw refers to the Bone-
crusher in the Sky, and I’m starting to
imagine a road to his castle lit by radiant
heads of blonds on poles as streetlamps for the gods,
flickering on at twilight as I used to do
in the years when I crashed more parties and acted
more outrageously and met more beauties and made
more enemies than ever before or ever again, I pray.
It’s spring and there’s another crop of kids
with haircuts from my childhood and inflated self-esteem
from my arrival in New York, who plug into the history
of prettiness, convincing to themselves and the devout.
We who are about to catch the eye of someone
new salute as the cotillion passes, led by blonds
and followed by the rest of us, a formal march
to the dark edge of the ballroom where we step out
onto the terrace and the buds of the forsythia
that hides the trash sprout magically
at our approach. I toast it
as memorial to dreams as fragile and persistent
as a blond in love. My clothes smell like the smoky
bar, but the sweetness of the April air’s
delicious when I step outside and fill
my lungs, leaning my head back
in a first-class seat on the shuttle
between the rowdy celebration of the great deeds
to come and an enormous Irish wake in which
the corpses change but the party goes on forever.

 

 

That night with the green sky
by Tao Lin

It was snowing and you were kind of beautiful
We were in the city and every time I looked up
Someone was leaning out a window, staring at me

I could tell you liked me a lot or maybe even loved me
But you kept walking at this strange speed
You kept going in angles and it was confusing me

I think maybe you were thinking that you’d make me disappear
By walking at strange speeds and in a strange, curvy way
But how would that cause me to vanish from the planet Earth?

And that hurts
Why did you want me gone?
That hurts
Why?
Why?
I don’t know
Some things can’t be explained, I guess
The sky, for example, was green that night

 

Our Lady of Knock
by Fanny Howe

Was in the month of Mary
That I lost my desire to pray.
It seeped away like yellow.
As blurred as sorrow.
It was me singing hope as a solo.
God growing weak and subtle.
Birdsong was my last communion.
The burn of karma was the loss
Of sureness and of eros,
Mental delirium, the triumph of the strong,
A sacred heart in iron,
It was the end of an eon, winter
Was coming. The seeds were fires
Inside the children… . Knock, knock, Mary.

 

Music
by Frank O’Hara

If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian
pausing for a liver sausage sandwich in the Mayflower Shoppe,
that angel seems to be leading the horse into Bergdorf’s
and I am naked as a table cloth, my nerves humming.
Close to the fear of war and the stars which have disappeared.
I have in my hands only 35¢, it’s so meaningless to eat!
and gusts of water spray over the basins of leaves
like the hammers of a glass pianoforte. If I seem to you
to have lavender lips under the leaves of the world,
I must tighten my belt.
It’s like a locomotive on the march, the season
of distress and clarity
and my door is open to the evenings of midwinter’s
lightly falling snow over the newspapers.
Clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear, trumpet
of early afternoon! in the foggy autumn.
As they’re putting, up the Christmas trees on Park Avenue
I shall see my daydreams walking by with dogs in blankets,
put to some use before all those coloured lights come on!
But no more fountains and no more rain,
and the stores stay open terribly late.

 

At Christmas
by Barbara Eknoian

 

on sunday we took the train to the city and we each went home for one night and i saw my parents and my bedroom and my cat and you saw your ex boyfriend and his parents and his bedroom and his dog and when i called you i heard you ask me to go back to sleep and i said is everything okay and you told me to please go back to sleep
by Spencer Madsen

not sure if you
ever told me how
you felt about
christmas lights

i said i’d wrap them around our room
and put popcorn in your mouth

a few weeks ago i
walked onto a street
and sat prepared

lets
sleep like two hands
caught
in each other’s fingers

lets be demonstrative
of that image
in an earnest way
lets forget i wrote it down
or else it won’t feel genuine

yesterday i googled:
homemade fleshlight

 

Hand Over Heart
by David Trinidad

I look up at the clock.
It’s time to go, so
I cover the typewriter
and calculator, lock my radio
in the file cabinet
and straighten my desk.
On the way out, I unplug
the Christmas tree lights.
I am rarely the last one
to leave the office.

Alone in the elevator,
I listen to a lilting
rendition of “Frosty
The Snowman.” The door
slides open. Outside,
it’s already dark. I say
good night to the guard
in the parking lot, wait
for my car to warm up.
It does and I drive off.

Halfway home
I turn on the radio
Madonna sings
her new hit, “Open
Your Heart.” At
the same time, on
another station,
Cyndi Lauper sings
her latest song, “Change
Of Heart”. Not that long
ago, it might have
been Brenda Lee
singing “Heart In Hand”
and Connie Francis
Belting out any number
of her most popular
tunes: “My Heart
Has A Mind Of Its
Own,” “Breakin’ In
A Brand New Broken
Heart,” “When
The Boy In Your Arms
(Is The Boy In Your
Heart)” or “Don’t
Break The Heart
That Loves You.”
I Don’t know why
I think about
such things.

 

Christmas on Telegraph
by Tom Clark

Shoppers rush past frozen images unseen,
In bright synthetics Sierra skiers ski
Through snowdead woods on blurred storewindow TV.
In the forest it is cold. How can it be
Colder in the cities? Street people crouched
Under Amoeba’s protective arcade mouth
Such big round starving O’s: oxygen balloons
Lifting off to perfect freedom, no strings —
A pity they can’t float off in them.
Peace, brother. I can spare the buck or pass it.
Just breathing commits one to everything —
To life — which can’t be purchased on this street
Where ravenous as sheer presence Christmas lights
Up human appetites for guilty pleasures.

 

Literary Lipsticks
by Elaine Equi

The Best American Poetry
Red Wheelbarrow
I Have Eaten the Plums
Poppies in October
Pink Christmas
Red Weather
A Rose Is a Rose
Jaffa Juice
Watermelon Sugar
Frost at Midnight

 

 

Is This a Poem For the Year 2219?
by Mike Young

Yes, this is a poem for the year 2219
about the fact my bathroom is above
my neighbors’ bedroom, and I sing
Roy Orbison songs at immaculate volumes
during my routines, which is partly my love
of song and partly my obsession with the idea
of audience. Dear 2219, a bathroom is a private
chlorinated water repository filled with hair gel
and other methods of impression insurance,
like sleeping pills. Neighbors are people who
lock the downstairs door just because some
random bro started fingerpainting their door-
bell Sunday night. Oops, he said. You’re not my
parents. Neighbors leave notes asking you to park
considerately and curbside boxes of giveaway bins
to judge them by. In bedrooms, 2219, what you do is
sniff a cowboy shirt you’ve plucked off the floor to see
if it’s okay to wear for teaching the kids I guess you call
First Moroccan Restauranteer in Space and Single Season
Small Needle Home Run Record Holder. You leave the mandarin
peels on your bed after having awesome sex with your girlfriend
but throw them away when she leaves for work. In 2219, you may
instead want to rub the peels all over your chest. If so, history
repeats itself. Golly. Singing is a method of generating inside
you a logging road, dawn-ish, swards of sugar beets, after driving
all night, knowing it’s about to rain but it’s not raining yet, thanks
sky! Singing may also be catalogued as Christmas underwater
and hiking slowly along the railroad ties with the best candy bar
but no home. For the sub-category of song known as Roy Orbison,
ditch your footnotes, 2219! 1936-1988, popular for soaring R&B;
and indoor sunglasses: that’s not Roy Orbison! Roy Orbison is a
naked knee so lovely you’d cry if you weren’t afraid of the knee
getting wet. Other things you need to know, 2219: I am afraid of
everything. We would rake the stars into piles to say what’s after
us. Happiness without certain phone calls is impossible. Your father
will die. Last Christmas, I ran into my friend Reggie at the cineplex.
His kid was cute. Me and my other friend were making fun of the movie
Reggie wanted to see. Reggie and I cussed together for the first time I can
remember, but I think we’re made of different smoke. 2219, I might be
above you or something. But I’m probably just below you. I take so many
multivitamins. Sometimes I try to make sure the best songs in my iTunes
have the most plays, but I don’t know why. Carolyn’s a better singer than
I am, and Dorothy told me that when I sing Bridge Over Troubled Water
it sounds like I’m falling apart. Is that a good thing? Wouldn’t it be more
considerate to just spend my time recycling cartons of apple cider for
you, 2219? Instead I carry a pillowcase full of laundry to the laundromat
and try to memorize my life enough to remember my life. I walk streets
named after people too dead to meet and try to sing loud enough to get
stuck in strangers’ heads. Carolyn and I go down on each other to hear the
other make their sounds. One time I saw my downstairs neighbor in a
line, and she smiled, waved at me. I couldn’t remember who she was.
She left her place to come talk. Then I remembered. 2219, they just
found water on the moon. Your love will only count before it’s gone.

 

Christmas Eve
by Bill Berkson

for Vincent Warren

Behind the black water tower

under the grey
of the sky that feeds it
smoke speeds to where a pigeon
spreads its wings

This is no great feat
Cold pushes out its lust
We walk we drink we cast
our giggling insults

Would you please
leave the $2.50 you owe me
I would rather not talk about it
just now           Money bores me I would like
to visit someone who will stay
in bed all day           A forest is rising
imperceptibly in my head
not a civilized park

I think it would be nice this “new
moral odor” no it would not mean
“everything marching to its tomb”
The water tower
watches over us           Is there someone
you would like to invite           no one.

 

from I Remember
by Joe Brainard

I remember Christmas tree lights reflected on the ceiling.

I remember Christmas cards arriving from people my parents forgot to send cards to.

I remember mistletoe.

I remember Christmas carols. And car lots.

I remember Aunt Cleora who lived in Hollywood. Every year for Christmas she sent my brother and me a joint present of one book.

 

Connie’s Scared
by Clark Coolidge

The wind came up, the radishes died and
the peelings continued. No one could be
more hostile than a species enclosed in
a chimney for a century or so they told me.
The lighter fluid on the other hand might warm
your nails. We deserve overtime
for dealing daily with these mistreated burdens.
The milkweed pods for no reason in the world
we could see ignited and the frog is loose.
The mail at last arrived but you had better
proceed to lick your envelopes more heartily
as they all came empty. No one exactly states
but everybody thinks the whole world level
has been lowered and continues. If the flame
goes out the food will spoil, remember?

Then there is the problem of the stray moose
to be seen from the road or better not, bring
apples, take pictures, but the village idiot
had his son throw rocks. The later thunder
around the sleeping household was a mere
five minutes herd of cows. And Rip Rowan thought that
thunder was produced by two crickets banging
garbage cans together. Tomorrow the snow will
be higher and the school fail to attract. I pay
for entrance to this life by my exit, can’t wait
each morning to treat of impossible questions and
have never been depressed. Makes you wonder,
all these seacows spitting on their tails,
flashing lights on the spaceride and even in my dreams.
Claimed I awoke from the fight I couldn’t win.
Chained my warts to a snowcone.

Across the street are many stray dogs but whose
fault are the cats. Something terrible’s going on
in the woods the rabbit is screaming, the cat
distinctly calling your name, nothing that can’t
be solved with golf club and pistol empty. Lock
your house when you leave for the auto. The company
that brought you pasteboard frowns on too many
fallen trees. Check your son’s teeth when he eats
or he’ll end a blimp. A crib death when a baby’s
network lapses mid-breath. The television not collapse
but slowly burn out. And that cooking by radar might cost
you a few meals. There goes another roast beast.

The adult book human gunned down as he left. Seems
the nature of crime to go unsolved, covered up,
never caught. Sal Mineo, for one. If so, wouldn’t
you want your kids to stop it. A gay couple hated
for their foul language not their sex. But the fat weather
woman terminated as a lesbian. Stamp out discomfort
and lift a heel for bliss. Heaven more attractive
now that harps are out of style. One arm in a sling
and the other in a bear. At the loss of life and
limb remain cool. Their son last seen chewed by
croc in pool of steam.

There is no longer any Florida and Christmas nowhere.
The men removed our home sometime lastnite while
we shook. Asked me how I felt and what he could do
with his mike. All my girlfriends have been raped,
some in basements, some by families. Even in the movies
they don’t know they can complain. Reels mixed, eyesight
tearing. Heard they’ve even left the lights on in space.
The dawning hastes and subsequent vagueries.
Never a morning wake but I congeal.

 

Some kind of nut
by Charles Bukowski

the best Christmas I can remember
I was in a tiny room in
Philadelphia
and I pulled down all the
shades
and went to bed
and pulled up the
covers.

there was no telephone.
there were no Christmas cards.
there was no family.
there were no gifts

and I believe that I felt better
than anybody in that
city
and almost anybody
in any of the
cities.

and I celebrated New Year’s
Eve in the same
manner.

 

Holes
by Eileen Myles

Once when I passed East Fourth Street off First Avenue,
I think it was in early fall and I had a small hole
in the shoulder of my white shirt, and another on
the back–I looked just beautiful. There was a
whole moment in the 70s when it was beautiful
to have holes in your shirts and sweaters.
By now it was 1981, but I carried that 70s style
around like a torch. There was a whole way of
feeling about yourself that was more European
than American, unless it was American around
1910 when it was beautiful to be a strong
starving immigrant who believed so much
in herself and she was part of a movement
as big as history and it explained the
hole in her shirt. It’s the beginning
of summer tonight, and every season has
cracks through which winter
or fall might leak out. The most perfect
flavor of it, oddly in June. Oh remember
when I was an immigrant. I took a black
beauty and got up from the pile of poems
around my knees and just had too much
energy for thought and walked over to
your house where there was continuous
beer. Finally we were just drinking
Rheingold, a hell of a beer. At the
door I mentioned I had a crush on both
of you, what you say to a couple. By
now the kids were in bed. I can’t
even say clearly now that I wanted
the woman, though it seemed to be
the driving principle then, wanting
one of everything. I was part of
a generation of people who went to
the bars on 7th street and drank the
cheap whiskey and the ale on tap and dreamed
about when I would get you alone. Those
big breasts. I carried slim notebooks which only
permitted two or three-word lines. I need you.
“Nearing the Horse.” There was blood in all my
titles, and milk. I had two bright blue pills
in my pocket. I loved you so much. It was
the last young thing I ever did, the end of
my renaissance, an immigration into my
dream world which even my grandparents
had not dared to live, being prisoners
of schizophrenia and alcohol, though
I was lovers with the two. The beauty
of the story is that it happened.
It was the last thing that happened
in New York. Everything else happened
while I was stopping it from happening.
Everything else had a life of
its own. I don’t think I owe
them an apology, though at least
one of their kids hates my guts.
She can eat my guts for all
I care. I had a small hole in
the front of my black sleeveless
sweater. It was just something
that happened. It got larger
and larger. I liked to put
my finger in it. In the month
of December I couldn’t get
out of bed. I kept waking
up at 6PM and it was Christmas
or New Year’s and I had
started drinking & eating. I remember
you handing me the most beautiful
red plate of pasta. It was like your cunt
on a plate. I met people in your house
even found people to go out and fuck,
regrettably, not knowing about
the forbidden fruit. I forget
what the only sin is. Somebody
told me recently. I have so
many holes in my memory. Between
me and the things I’m separated
from. I pick up a book and
another book and memory
and separation seem to
be all anyone writes
about. Or all they
seem to let me read.
But I remember those
beautiful holes on
my back like a
beautiful cloak
of feeling.

 

A Severe Lack of Holiday Spirit
by Amy Gerstler

I dread the icy white concussion
of winter. Each snowfall demands
panic, like a kidnapper’s hand
clapped over my chapped mouth.
Ice noms everywhere, a plague
of glass. Christmas ornaments’
sickly tinkle makes my molars ache.
One pities the anemic sun
come January. Trees go skeletal.
Children born in the chilly months
are apt to stammer. People hit
the sauce in a big way all winter.
Amidst blizzards they wrestle
unsuccessfully with the dark comedy
of their lives, laughter trapped
in their frigid gizzards. Meanwhile,
the mercury just plummets,
like a migrating duck blasted
out of the sky by some hunter
in a cap with fur earflaps.

 

On his reluctance to take down the Christmas ornaments
by John Ashbery

A nice, normal morning:
feet setting out as though in a trance,
doubling the yesterdays, a doubled man
under the stairs, and strange surrealist fish
from so much disappearance, damaged in the mail.

Or the spry cutting edge of another day.
Here, we have these in
sizes and colors —
day goes fluttering by.

Like ivy behind a chimney
it grows and grows in ropes.
Mouse teams unsay it,
yeoman can’t hear yet.

A shadow purling,
up into the sky.
Silence in the vandalised vomitorium.

It’s great that you can be here too.
Passivity rests its case.

 

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, B. Of course, of course. New PT, just in the nick of time for a lad like me with no Xmas to fall back on. Everyone, _Black_Acrylic’s superb soundfest in the form of a podcast, last seen locally in my year’s favorites list, is providing you with something to listen and jive to on almost Xmas. a new episode. Take it away _B_A: ‘The latest episode of my show is online here via Tak Tent Radio! With Play Therapy v2.0, you seem even more beautiful than before.’ He’s so right! And thanks for your lists. Duly noted. ** Christopher Owens, Hi, sir. Well, the honor was entirely the blog’s and mine. Thank you for writing it, obviously. Are you working on something new? ** michael karo, Wow, it’s been ages, Mr. Karo. Welcome! Merry Xmas to you and all of yours. ** jay, Hi. Yeah, I like his work too. He also has done the storyboards for all three of Zac’s and my films, which is I guess how he knew about my work. Oh, gosh, thanks. I’m thrilled with Kier’s cover, obviously. I’m actually also really happy with ‘Horror Hospital Unplugged’. I think Keith Mayerson did an amazing adaption there. I’ll look for ‘Sleep’. Happy continuing build up to the famously big day, my friend. ** Lucas, Hi. Yes, I’ve gifted myself an extra cup of coffee to get through this whopper today, haha. Amazing lists, of course. Ultimately time is relative. I hope everything is sorted in your life and that Xmas is a shining light of sorts. ** FDM, Hi! Wow, thank you so much. That’s awesome to hear. A very Merry Xmas to you too! Do you have fun plans for the day? ** Charalampos, You made it You broke through. The monster is not impervious. My obvious pleasure re: your book’s inclusion. Enjoy Xmas. You doing anything re: it? ** Chris Kelso, Hi, Chris, and thanks a lot. Presents sent my way? Mm, I don’t think so. Let me check. My roommate sometimes forgets to hand me things. Happiest early Xmas to you and to your world and to its immediate inhabitants. ** James, Hi. Muscly gif dude? You mean Harmony Korine’s? Oh, right. Ex-teacher needs MDMA. The drug not the band. The only sport I was ever actually pretty good at, other than pool, was volleyball. Only because I’m tall. I’d like 3 custard donuts, and I know where I can get them if I’m not too lazy. underscores’ Wallsocket (Director’s Cut) was unknown but now on my to-do list. Be extremely free. You deserve it. ** Steeqhen, I still haven’t heard the new Xiu Xiu. Thanks for the reminder. I like its title. I hope you wrote as much as you wanted and that your friend struck you as a best friend. ** Malik, Hi, Malik! How great to see you! You’re so much more caught up on films of the moment than me. ‘all the words but the one’ pops out because it’s completely unknown to me. I’ll start there. Right, the Ka (RIP) was really good. I forgot that. How are you doing? What are you up to, if you feeling like filling us/me in? ** Miette GIllette, Hi. Thank you a lot for coming in. Well, of course, about ‘The Berlin Wall’. You’re doing really great work with Whisk(e)y Tit. I’m a thrilled beneficiary and true admirer. ** Tyler Ookami, Your method worked! I don’t know World’s End Girlfriend, and I’ll find them via that concert, thanks! Skin Graft did hit big marks this year, yeah. Thanks a million for the links to your faves. I don’t know a bunch of them, so I’m on it. No, the yaoi maker sent me her ‘Try’ yaois after they were published. The BL stuff in ‘HHU’ was pretty much the artist’s doing. He had totally free rein, and I think he was the one who decided to reference that stuff. But I guess it was accessible somehow. Financially precarious: me too, biggish time. You’ll make it. So will I. Somehow. Done deal. Seems like at least. ** Bill, Great about the show’s high satisfaction level for you and no doubt for the assembled punters. I don’t think there’s a single thing on any of your lists that I know at all. Wow. I’ll get there. New Ned Rothenburg, huh? Cool. ** John Williams, Holy moly, John! You’re inside here. What in the world! I’ve been meaning to call you. There’s film news. I’ll call you, but I’ll text you first! You have a batch of things on your list that I totally spaced on and would have included if my brain had cooperated. The Autechre, Orcutt, Radigue, and Moth Cock just to start. Dude, it’s so wild to see you in here. I’ll talk to you in the next day or hopefully. xo, me. ** Steve, Hi. Thanks for your lists! Your oldie but goldie films list is greatness packed, obviously. I don’t know the Kaitlin Simiotics album, but it sounds pretty must-like. I’ll check it out today, thank you. Are you doing Xmas itself in any respect? ** Nikolaj, Hi! Welcome! I’m very happy to get to meet you. Sure, I’d really love to read your novel. Email me at [email protected], and I can give you my physical address or you can send a pdf there if you prefer. I really look forward to it. Very very happy holidays to you too! ** politekid, Organized tractors can still exude considerable charisma, in my imagination at least. And the rest. Your invitation is accepted and will be cashed in as soon as the occasion arises. I’m almost certain that the opera project is permanently dead. Its impetus had a lot to do with the opportunity to work with Scott Walker, and while it’s up to Gisele, I think without that factor it becomes way too complicated and expensive to follow through on sadly. ‘Paper Mario’ is in a hopefully short phase of kicking my ass, or my hands I guess, due to a very difficult boss, but I will find a way to beat him or my name isn’t Dennis. Amazing lists! You’re quite the high level cultural vacuum. Is that Renee Gladman novel out already? Shit, I need it bad. Big wad of music I don’t know but have just scribbled down. And the linkable internet stuff, thank you for taking the time to give me a fast way inwards re: them. Thank you, O, thank you a lot. Onwards to Xmas we go. ** Adem Berbic, Adem! Hey, pal! Great, I’ll be here when you are, and, duh, want to meet up. Just shoot me your coordinates and availability when they are in place. No word from Alex yet, but I’d love to see him too. Yes, ping me Charlotte’s writing, just be sure to let her know that I am very, very slow at the best of times. But yes, sure, I’m curious. Make Xmas your no limits slave, man. ** Dominik, Hi!!! Thanks, yeah, the Buche was yum and the company was perfecto. I’ll be happy to read your year’s faves once you’re back in your homestead. Homemade Xmas cookies will rock, thank you/him. I hope Hungary manages to provide you with an enormously festive holiday. Love wishing you that same hope as well plus singing the praises of the humble yet delicious egg salad sandwich he just stomached, G. ** Montse, Hi, Montse, my dear pal! I’m good, I’m happy now that I’ve gotten to see you. Thank you for your list, much on it yet to be discovered by me. ‘Room Temperature’ is borderline finished and is soon to finally begin entering the world at large which is quite a relief. Much love to you, and I know Zac would send his love hurling your way as well. Have the best Xmas! ** Misanthrope, Hey. You couldn’t pay me to see that Chalamet/Dylan thing. But let me know if and how I’m wrong about it, or try at least. I’m still all about ‘Paper Mario’. It rules. ** nat, Well, much relief at the solving of your toilet problem. Imagine I’m singing a Xmas carol just for you. ** Jeff J, Whoa, you made it inside. VPN assisted, I’m assuming? Hey, bud! Excellent lists, natch. So, how the hell are you, assuming lightning strikes twice and you can come back again? xo, me. ** Sarah, 500 hours! Uh, I think I’m going to stay far away from ‘Balatro’. I’m trying to maintain my mere borderline addiction. You think Drake won the beef! Wow, that’s refreshing. Definitely give me the date of your book’s birth when its due date is determined. So cool! I hope you’re feeling better by now. Although being sick on Xmas sounds kind of romantic to me, I don’t know why. Easy for me to say. Famous last words. ** HaRpEr, Oh, that Beefheart track, great thinking! Your lists of things seen, heard and watched are written in gold on parchment, of course. I hope your Monday opens the Pearly Gates to heaven on earth, not to the imaginary place itself, of course. ** Justin D, Howdy, Justin. Top of the Paris morning to you. Actually it’s sort of the late-middle now. You know, I have never read Ottessa Moshfegh. Isn’t that weird? I suppose I should. Thanks, pal. Take a deep whiff of your Xmas tree for me. ** iwishiwasanon, Hey, hey! It was actually for an opera, not a film. He was going to sing the opera too. Oh, god, it would have been so amazing. Compilation of the Walker Brothers singles … no, I don’t think I have, Huh. Okay, it even seems like kind of an appropriately Xmas-y thing to hear. Thanks so much for your lists. I’ll go through them and pry out the things I don’t know and make haste to become less ignorant. Good luck with all your papers and stuff! ** Meg Gluth, Hey, Meg! It has been too long a while. I was so sad about your mom. I’m so sorry. Claire Rousay likes my work? Seriously? That’s incredible to know. Wow. Yeah, I love her stuff. I’ve been mostly good. Pretty much everything for ages has been about getting Zac’s and my film out of all of its troubles and finished, and it’s almost finished now and even has a World Premiere set up, so that’s exciting, and there are still troubles to conquer, and I don’t how we’re going to conquer them, but we will somehow. Centimeters away! That’s is extremely great and long awaited news! Wow! Oscar’s been filling me in a little on your collaborative film, and obviously I’m way thrilled in advance for that. Thank you for your list. Great to see you! I hope the stars will align to make that happen more frequently. ** Cletus, Hi, Cletus. Well, my great pleasure and a no brainer. You sound good. Have the merriest Xmas that the world as you know it will allow. ** Okay. Today you get my 7th annual scroll of Xmas poems, and I hope they get you in the appropriate mood. See you tomorrow.