Kenning JP Garcia

“The usual table at the usual Starbucks.”

Readings

The first poem you remember loving (and how you feel about it now)

André Breton, “La mort rose.” (from Le revolver à chevux blancs. Éditions des Chaiers Libres, 1932)

This is not necessarily the first poem that I remember loving but it is the poem that shifted my thinking on poetry. This poem is "La mort rose" or "Rosy Death" by André Breton. The very first line of the poem was a bit of a game-changer for a fairly young version of this self: "The winged octopuses will guide one last time the boat whose sails are made of this single day hour by hour." For me, it immediately separated itself from Ted Berrigan, Jim Carroll, and Frank O'Hara, who were some favorite poets at that time, and I have translated this poem three different ways myself as it still intrigues me. I appreciate its sense of both taking charge and also helplessness and, of course, its preoccupation with time. This first line also throws at the reader this sort of chimeric vision of a god which is an unnatural spin on an already unique animal. And, it works through a sort of aquatic setting which helped to teach me to dig into an idea, theme, or notion.

A poet or book of poetry from the mid-twentieth century

It is difficult to pick only one poet from the mid-twentieth century, but I'll pick David Antin, who began in the late ’60s and kept writing/lecturing through the early part of this century and only recently died, in 2016. David Antin is probably best known for his talk poetry and his extemporaneous talks. As somebody who has always written works with a sense of conversation in mind, it was refreshing to see somebody go right at the notion of being able to talk a poem and to not be concerned about the musicality and metaphors that can bog down a sentiment. In addition, the extemporaneous is concerned with not being able to rely on revision to make the perfect piece but instead following one's most recent thoughts as well as allowing for some nagging thoughts to come through.

A poet or book of poetry from the late twentieth century

Leslie Scalapino is probably the single most important influence upon my recent writing (other than my dearest Proust). Scalapino did not wish to make a distinction between poetry and essay and often blended fiction with her essays and poetry. Zither and Autobiography, which came out in 2003, was my introduction to her work, but since then I've gone back into her earlier works. For me, she was lyric essay before the lyric essay really took off and hybrid before there really was the term/genre. What is the most important about Scalapino is that she might have a thesis but doesn't always come to any conclusion. She is not tied to any idea of completion but is instead trying to work through ideas and to talk to herself / to other works. Her work often feels like conversation or correspondence.

A poet or book in translation or in another language:

Nicanor Parra, Poemas y antipoemas, (Catédra, 1954)

Nicanor Parra is the author of Poemas y antipoemas (1954). He was a Chilean writer who seemed almost immortal, as he lived from 1914 until 2018. He had a particular disdain for certain aspects of poetry and sought to push back against those conventions. I follow in those footsteps while also updating some ideas of what it means to be antipoet. Similar to another Chilean poet, Vincente Huidobro, who founded the Creationism school of writing which only included himself, I have become the only member of the Rejectionist school of writing also known as NahNahism. Parra’s ideas, too, have stuck with me ever since I first read him, and I constantly go back and reread his work to get a better ideas of what he was actually doing and whether or not he was able to achieve those goals. I often say that the aesthetic precedes the ability and therefore sometimes one falls short of one's goal, but Parra does not. He did what he sought out to do even if what he was doing was always a bit of an inside joke so insular that it was only with himself. And he was always quick to redact everything that he said/wrote. But remember, redaction is never the same as revision.

A work of theory or criticism:

Eugene Thacker, Horror of Philosophy series ( In the Dust of this Planet; Starry Speculative Corpse; Tentacles Longer Than Night), (Zer0 Books, 2011; 2015; 2015)

Recently, I read Eugene Thacker's three-part series, Horror of Philosophy. These short books look at the relationship between horror and philosophy and offer up some quite fascinating takes on both. Eugene Thacker has a particular attachment to E. M. Cioran and for people who enjoyed the nihilism of the first season of True Detective this might be some good supplemental reading. As someone who has a real love of horror and has written works that might fall into alt- or post-horror, these books were quite interesting in and of themselves, but they also lead me to an interest in Cioran's own works. While I am an absurdist and not a pessimist nor nihilist, there is a lot to be gleaned from his works.

Writings

Glide Notes

happy birthday was wished enough times today but these wishes are wasted on this. 45 years old. have learned a lot about birthdays over the years. might have been assigned miserable at birth but today has shifted from that position. not miserable but certainly not happy.

*

eidolon. a double unlife. existence as others live and breathe. tension placed in one's grasp and requesting, needing, resistance. the idea and the image as adverbs. imaginarily. ideationally. passing through. pausing. pushing away, back. leaving the table in such a way. leaning in to hear better. in these aspects. for these ceaseless situations. no character development. just more characters. selves. spirits. images and ideas. this body is secondary behind so many screens these days.

*

sweet sounds lost into the decay. dulcet tones entering into the fading away. in and out of harmonies. strap on the feedback. the feed bag. silence is going. is going. is. ambulance and fire engine. cop cars. actually quiet tonight.

*

loose skies.

*

this is goodbye. this bird only sings swan songs. these flames are only fanned as torch songs. this is the big finale.

*

fireworks and playing with fire. and though the bush was burning it was not consumed. sweat on the brow. musty smells rising from the passing crowds. it's a celebration. it's a mourning. it's a gathering. it's just another workday. the coals are going cold at the cookouts. what was being passed around is no longer. the rotation has slowed to a stop. the night is young but the day was long. tomorrow is guaranteed to no one but history has already been written and will need to be revised. but none of this matters right now. summer is no longer a vacation from anything. just more people out and about and in the way in ways that the world wasn't when the snow was falling in the winter. when leaves fell in the autumn. when spring couldn't make its mind up as to whether or not it should rain or shine. whether to be warm or cold. to break the ice. to set rivers back in motion. to thaw out the dreams put away for the past few months. those resolutions that one never really got around to. the spring cleaning wasn't too thorough this year so maybe a summer scrubbing is called for too. including getting rid of those files that nothing else can be added to. failures in progress.

*

an autobiography is not an autopsy. one does not get to see for oneself. instead one gets to see for or as another's self.

*

these echoes have no place in this canal of an ear through which eyes and needles have already been set against those who travel here with misunderstood words held close to heart as a gunny sack is held close to a back awaiting marching orders. the dromedary was domesticated to be a taxi or an RV. to provide milk and wool. even the urine has a purpose. the pisstake of missing the point and yet having the thread ready to sew closed the gap has not escaped the valleys that reject all but the shadows of the mountains above.

*

"what appears in the night is the night that appears." (Maurice Blanchot as quoted by Eugene Thacker – Starry Speculative Corpse: Horror of Philosophy)

*

nothing good. that's all anybody around here knew. that's what could be counted on. nothing good that was the usual. nobody to count. hell, nobody to even go to. no family. not even chosen family. it's all alone out here. old now and only getting older.

*

top TV picks. new books from an author on sale. new tracks. low storage. low battery. deals. sales. plug in charger. go to device maintenance. blue shade on.

*

silence revoked.

*

what is there to offer intuition? everything is unprecedented. the preemptive strike of essence was just that, a strike. a stoppage. no work being done. it's all no go. it's not before anything when nothing else is coming along. technically, the technicalities are all for nought.

*

sheer.

*

a sacrifice. only a passing thought. a scapegoat of an idea. given back to the unknown. in exchange for what?

*

magic can so easily give way to horror. the mystical less so but there's always that chance and yet as the magician understands the importance of an assistant, the mystic is in it all alone and up to the elbows in it.

*

maybe not a friend but a known someone. to be cheesy, a fellow traveler, died today. one only a couple years older. one known mostly online. more so by the work published than by words exchanged and by shared acquaintances more so than by words exchanged or by paths crossing. known well enough to gain some sort of respect and now reflection. the looking back is maybe more looking within and ahead but there is a look. a long look. taking time to look. the work will be shared and looked over again or for the first time. the work will be reflected upon and thought about. the liaisons between this and that life will speak about what that person was about and what that person meant on a personal level. will share experiences and some gaps will be filled in and new memories made from the memories of others. this community is both big and small and tight and spread out but close. it's a web without spiders only flies. only brooms that can't reach up high enough to sweep it all away. only something to say tomorrow. to come up with a better way of saying it at some later date hopefully before it's too late.

*

sitting on invitations but don't want to commit to anything. didn't go to work tonight. didn't want to commit to not being able to lose it. need room to leave or lose it. been needing more room a lot lately. this is called not used to getting older. not being comfortable with it.

*

the bright places are not all the same but the dark places are so different at least in these places that defy a certain amount of description by virtue of losing the sense of seeing and instead inheriting another sense of careful navigation and negotiation. changing approaches as needed. no ability to plan everything out in detail as there is no way to understand the details to come. with light comes contingencies. with the dark comes consequences. consequences as seen in the light of day are called justified or cruelty but even when the causes are unseen, reasons are reached. conclusions by microscope, by telescope, by any lens that helps one see what shouldn't be seen. in the dark, contingencies get lost. become disconnected and yet are close enough to touch.

*

language is so useless sometimes. as is logic.

*

reality has never been what it used to be. meaning is always out of sync.

Kenning JP García is an antipoet, diarist, performer, and humorist. Xe currently lives in Albany, New York, and went to SUNY Albany for linguistics and also studied several languages at Hudson Valley Community College. Xe is the author of OF (What Place Meant) (West Vine Press), With (Really Serious Literature), as well as the chapbook, Ghost Notes (Spiral Editions). Xe posts memes at @kenningjpgarcia on Instagram as well as the occasional update of what xe is reading/watching.

Kenning was recommended by Joe Hall.