Doug's Boog Blog Pt. 1

On the bus from Buffalo I read Lyn Hejinian’s My Life in the Nineties which was a beguiling read, as I couldn’t determine whether, as a “text” it was presenting a question of the poem in the domain of philosophy (questioning the poem), or a question of philosophy in the domain of the poetic (questioning philosophy). Personally, it was an event of reading in transit, and so I decided that the real beauty of the work lay in its bringing the question of the sentence into view. This is a tension that art is consistently asked to dramatize for us: a form in tension with content. As autobiography, the details of the work disclose some events that may or may not occur to the writer as a human being traveling and living a literary life in the United States at the end of the twentieth century. As a work of poetic art, the poem discloses the thought inherent in sentences, allowing the act of composition to take precedence over the dramatic interest we may have in the facts of her life. The real facts in this book were, for me, the interrelations between words in units of syntax—a poetics of the line as a statement modulated by the following statement, and the uncertain position of what role a particular grammatical form or word can take in the ongoing disclosure of the sentence. Prosody in the new My Life, the rhythm or words sounds, is not strictly metrical in a pre-modern sense: there is no ambition towards temporal repetition, the kind of lull or hypnosis that strictly metered verse provides us. Instead, the poem attempts to understand a prosody of thought and perception as temporal acts of cognition. While the poetic form becomes a particular exercise of thought, a negotiation of rhetoric & sentential acts, the content itself is sensuous, rhythms actualized by the palpability of referents to disclose an emotional, tactile, human-centered universe. Poetry that I like always asks for re-reading and opens its pleasures only to serious commitment, and this may be one of the central dilemmas for poets today: encouraging repetition in reading, in dwelling and maintaining a relationship with a particular text or poem long enough for it to disclose its particular rhythms and interrelationships; relations between what is staged or manipulated as a literary inheritance, and what is liberated and given for mind-body pleasure.

The bus trip took far longer than I had expected, so I had missed both the opening night of the Boog City events on Thursday, as well as the events at the Sidewalk Café on Friday as a result of the time it took me to get into the city. There were a lot of difficulties encountered in simply making this trip at all, facts of the “less-than-shoestring” budget of the press itself, carrying all the books in my arms like a traveling salesman, or colporteur, and knowing that I could not spend any money at all, but desperately needed to make money. It seemed as though all the outward signs of this trip were giving me a counter-message to what I felt was my goal: to publicize and celebrate the work of poets I had published, to make a living, rather than have that living provided and shaped for me. This is the ongoing story of my adult life, a constant realization of the limits to what can be accomplished given the sincere, deliberate goals I want to achieve. I wanted the books to be sought out and bought by readers. But very few, almost none, of the people I know who live in the city came to buy my books. On the one hand, that was an implicit/explicit judgment of the work I had done, and if I were to settle into a self-critical mode, I would see it as a rejection of my work as publisher and poet. It brings to mind both the structuring of my expectations and efforts, and the structuring of literature as a cultural form. In the social myth of the United States, the poet has a particular role, as does the small press publisher, and so many of our social, commercial, and performative literary events are structured in such a way as to fulfill and perpetuate these tropes, these commonplaces we’ve established for our cultural life. The margin provided for contesting these roles is very thin, and the thinnest is the economic one. As the US Congress decides on the value of financial “paper” and rejects the convoluted and confusing determinations of value during the recent, so-called Wall Street bailout, on another level, readers of poetry in this, the literary capital of our nation, determine the value of the quite literal paper that I have worked on to print and publish. While the poems by these authors have great value both to me and themselves, another set of values is invoked during the “Fair” and “Festival”. Much has been made of the idea of a “gift” economy among poets, and to a great extent I have also participated in this idea. Another aspect of this money/poetry conundrum is the fact that, as David McFadden mentions in his Great Lakes Suite, “poets don’t buy books.” After removing/being removed from academic culture and losing my ability to purchase books as easily as I once did, I, too, rarely buy books. Small press is for many a form of counter-economy, a realization of a different form of exchange vastly removed from that of the type engaged in by the commercial and securities banks. My education in the fine distinctions and complicated world of the poetry hustle took on a new and useful dimension over the Boog City weekend.

I didn’t even know where I was going to sleep that night as I got off the bus next to the port authority terminal. I was going to meet a friend at the Café readings and Lou Reed cover-band show, but she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to come into the city. So I called another friend who lived closer to Manhattan, and he gave me an easier set of instructions to follow. I walked through the port authority building, and the first set of automated MTA vendors I came to was all shut down. I had to stand in a long line to buy a pass from the woman in the booth. Tired and sweaty, I finally was able to get on one train that, jiggle and bump, brought me out into the fabled city of Brooklyn, a place not entirely unlike some of my beloved Buffalo streets, except for the fact that these streets were full of people moving around and there was a feeling of motion, speed, and foot-traffic-friendly drivers. I guess I should say that there are just a few blocks of streets in Buffalo that have this feeling, whereas Brooklyn is the size of Buffalo and then some. All of Brooklyn’s streets are full of life and movement, new scenes, people of all kinds of backgrounds, careers and motivations. I walked about a mile from the station to Will Hubbard’s place, in a fantastic location practically overlooking the East River, under the Williamsburg Bridge, next to the recently-saved brick behemoth of the Domino Sugar factory. I met a group of guys in their twenties, drinking, smoking, living it up and getting ready to prowl the streets. They were really getting nostalgic and joyous over the song “Santa Monica” by the band Everclear. Will painted the words “Mom and Pop” on a cheap print of the old New York skyline, and we all took turns trying to guess what it meant (Will included). Jaye took me to a deli a few blocks away for a sammich, and we marveled at the cover of the New York Post, featuring pictures and a story about a midget that would have made P.T. Barnum proud. And to my surprise, my favorite kind of tobacco was over a dollar cheaper here! On return, the Everclear crew decided to decamp and head to a party featuring a brass band and booze, and I was thankful to get a chance to lay down on Dan and Will’s awesome leather couch, glue my sweaty and tired back to the soporific cowhide, and disappear into dreams of green electronic grasshoppers skittering over windswept drifts of highly-refined white sugar. In Santa Monica.

Buffalo Poets In Conversation

Hosted by the gracious & loquacious Will Hubbard; guided expertly through the maz'y Brooklyn streets by gentleman Jaye, and then offered good company and sweet ocean-side idleness by Damian of Damianco (in celebration of his birthday), I enjoyed the Welcome to Boog City Festival as it transformed from work into one righteous vacation. I'll be scientifically untangling the 1000 minutiae of my weekend on this blog soon enough.

A few days later I sat down to participate in a historic conversation with 9 other Buffalo poets at the awesome Bon Vivant performance hall/art gallery/poetry showcase space. To hear our thoughts, in a raw recording, please visit



Once at their site, you can find the file by clicking on Susan Marie's "This is NOT the Apple" show.

Hear me feverishly read prepared statements while all the other poets comfortably discuss their writing life with relaxed, eloquent ease!


*.*

boog city festival

My bus was over an hour late out of Buffalo. It had been held up en route from Toronto at the border (reminding me of Hejinian's line, "where there are borders there is barbarism"), and we took a long scenic route through beautiful New York State. Which means I missed the Sidewalk readings. I've just awakened under the Williamsburg Bridge & will walk it this morning with Jaye to Cakeshop. Hooray. Eating raisins, dried bananas, unsalted sunflower seeds & apple rings. Lots of literature. LOTS. Brooklyn is cool.

The Welcome

It's late summer here, air turning cooler, clear starry skies in Buffalo just before dawn, and I'm cleaning my apartment thinking about the weekend coming up: I'm taking the little scratch pad editions and a sheaf of my own verse downstate to Manhattan and Brooklyn. I've got a specially- designed "chap-caddy" for the books. What I love about the small small press bookfair and the reading coming up will be my chance to meet lots of poets and writers. Another bonus of the Boog City events is the amount of music featured. Being the publisher of a small small press means my expectations and hopes are very high, and the reality will likely be a great time meeting writers, musicians and poets, with the chance to make enough in sales to pay for the trip. Music, muses, and poems on the page: Cole Porter and colporteurs.

I'll be posting more about this event in the coming days.

Here is, as far as I can remember off the top of my head, all the little scratch pad books I've ever published:

Self-publishing era (1996-2004):

Eating a Stone. 1996. Single copy of various modes of writing. Maximum pathos, widest set of styles. Really my first attempt at collecting and binding my poems into a book. I gave this to a friend, it went with her to Rochester, and then I asked for her to mail it back.

Snack Size. 1997. Compiled after taking my first official graduate creative writing class, in which I received a grade of "B". I didn't make this book for the class, but rather was influenced mostly by the poets reading at the coffeehouse just over the border from the University. When Starbucks bought the building and ended its long tradition of music, art and poetry, the music moved to an old theater and became The Kent Stage, and the poetry moved to the Standing Rock gallery. There was an education professor who graded papers at the coffeehouse every day, Doc Zuckerman, who helped me design it. I made 25 copies, misspelled Charles Olson's name on the back cover, and then it was photocopied in an edition of 250 by Impetus Press. I've only this year finally run out of these. A month ago I read from this book for the first time in Buffalo in a dark room (Bon Vivant) while reading by candlelight (I had to hold the candle in order to see the text). I was sweating profusely. I felt like a brand new poet somehow.

Pulling the Long Face. (24 poems). 1998. Jayce Renner was crucial to this book. He set up a photo shoot based on my poem "Hats Off to Jacob Nibenegenesabe" a shaggy dog tale of going on the road overburdened by unsold artworks and a giant armoire. I only made 25 of these.

Edge of Perception. 2000. A little book that I don't have an enormous love for, but respect greatly. It marks my first real grappling with my move to Buffalo and the hypercharged atmosphere of intense philosophical and experimental poetry. Mike Kelleher helped me edit it, or at least encouraged me to think of a book as a complete artistic event. He also got me to change the name of the book, originally titled: Douglas Manson Verses Himself.

Topographic Resolution. 2000. Compiled for the Elevator Box Project, so, in a way, co-published with the ephemeral Elevator Press--a "box" project of art & poetry developed by Michael Kelleher and Brian Collier. One of my most favorite books. My text compares our "carbon economy" to the last days of the Aztecs, looks at gender identity, and also includes a catalog of 40 objects collected exactly one mile from my house in 40 directions, each one named for a poet, and given a weather. In the box were works by Rosa Alcala, Chris Alexander, Joel Bettridge, Michelle Citrin, Kristen Gallagher, Ike Kim, Brian Lampkin, Tim McPeek, Linda Russo, Jonathan Skinner and Roberto Tejada. 40 copies made. Ric Royer and Chris Fritton began the Ferrum Wheel art/poetry object-magazines soon after. And Damian Weber then began compiling found text for his "Source Material" magazine.

Love Sounds (Like Perfidy). 2002. Only 25 copies made, but quite a blast. I genetically designed a new letter for this book. I power-drilled every copy. I had great help from Eliza Newman-Saul in design work. The poem ended up as the central work in my book Roofing and Siding in the complete sequence of the "Sines Poem". Sinne's pome. Signs Poem. Synespoem.

The Flatland Adventures of Blip and Ouch. 2004. Sort of like a play. But really a kind of inverted Wizard of Oz TV commercial. I made an audio recording of this.

A Book of Birthdays. 2005. A work from the archives, compiling of lines. Not really a publication, but a way of giving. Cover designed by Theresa Rico.

Small Press era (2005-present):

Autobiography 1: Perfect Game by Aaron Lowinger. 2005. 27 poems organized around the game of baseball. What a work! 200 copies (100 of these with color covers).

Sections in Four Seasons by Douglas Manson. 2006. first part of to becoming normal. 26 copies.

TwentyTwo (first pallet) by Kristianne Meal. 2007--the small edition, "buff & rust" only 22 copies.

At Any Point by Douglas Manson. 2007--the small edition, "buff & rust". 25 copies.

TwentyTwo (first pallet) by Kristianne Meal. 2007. "editions #1". 100 copies.

Accidental Thrust by Nick Traenkner. 2007. "editions #2". 25 copies.

Of Venus 93 by Michael Basinski. 2007. "editions #3". 200 copies.

At Any Point by Douglas Manson. 2008. Expanded edition (text & prints). "editions #4". 100 copies.

NTR P C E ST R by L.A. Howe. 2007. "editions #5". 100 copies. A procedural work on the poem "Easter" by Frank O'Hara.

Words in Season by Tom Yorty. 2007. "editions #6". 200 copies.

Imaginary Poems for my Imaginary Girlfriend Named Anabel by Elizabeth Mariani. 2008. "2.1". 100 copies (green cover). Note: a new edition, with yellow cover, now in print from semperverdi press.

Ever After / Never Under (20 choruses) by Jaye Bartell. 2008. "2.2". 200 copies.

(forthcoming) With Naked Foot by Jonathan Skinner. 2008. "2.3". 100 copies.

Okay, I lied--I had to look up some of these books.

*.*

With a Woodchuck

Pitches for the Walls of Heaven

stop throwing sting

please stop throwing stingers and uselessness
throw love and pillows
and gym sets and rope bridges
throw rice and corn and calico
throw sweet breads and honeyed confection
throw your two arms around one
who needs them and hold on
throw sheet music and counterpoints
throw poems crafted in the heart’s forge
throw projections of your wildest vision
throw diagrams of self-defeating toys
throw the happiest grain quinoa like fireworks
throw lavender and olivine
throw back pay and health care to boot
throw visions of the unified city in images we can see
throw the syllabus for revenge in the garbage
throw pride and dignity and self worth across the sky
throw nematode angel encyclopedias of life
throw fountains and flowers and treadles and autoharps
throw now
or go sit on the bench

*.*

Confessions of a Read Freak

Perhaps to embarrass myself, or maybe to wonder out loud why I read what I read, I’m going to briefly hit on 7 or so books I am “actively” trying to finish. What these notes should point out, above all other considerations, is that I am a “read freak” and quite unrepentant of that fact. But I should warn everyone that its probably not a good idea to read as much as I do—it reveals an addiction-prone personality: I physically crave knowledge & understanding. But among the more readily available addictions all around us—sex, booze, drugs, patriotism, religion, technology, etc.,—for me it has remained the healthiest option of the lot (that and eating well, exercising frequently, and trying to maintain supportive relationships with others).

Jack Kerouac. Visions of Cody. “Written in 1951-52, it was an underground legend by the time it was finally published in 1972.” Proust on the loose! And how often we forget that he was born a French-Canadian; this, one of our most American of American prose masters of the 20^th century. This book is, for me, as monstrous to read as almost anything, like Patchen's anti-novels. Permanent underdog visions. I’m only 56 pages in, and still feel committed to finishing it. If only some decent book publisher would scoop up all his works and publish them in a beautifully typeset edition, and on paper that won’t yellow and fall apart after 3 years—and make it consistent for all its inconsistencies of grammar, punctuation, etc. As of now, his books are still carried around separately in the rucksacks of wanderers. A serious interest in Kerouac demands that you become a “collector” in order to read his sprawling autobiography, which also blends in the stories of so many others.

Nikolai Gogol. Dead Souls. Written in 1842. A book both funny and serious at the same time. A subtle satire on the serf-owning class, revealing their own absurdities while at the same time condemning them. Chichikov, the buyer of dead souls from serf-owner’s tax rolls, is a confidence man, probably the model for Melville’s brilliant book. I’m halfway through.

Kathleen Ferrick Rosenblatt. René Daumal: The Life and Work of a Mystic Guide.
In his Populist Manifesto of 1976, Lawrence Ferlinghetti says: “Poets…come down, come down/from your…Mount Analogues” I feel lucky that I own a photocopied version of Daumal’s Mount Analogue. Daumal was an outsider to outsiders—he was courted and then dismissed by the surrealist French writers of the 20s, but his body of work, fugitively translated into English, and much to our detriment, is a great example of a creative mind at work on the furthest frontiers of consciousness, trying to bring back all the knowledge he’s gained there for the benefit of everyone else unable to go that far out. Sadly, Mount Analogue remained an unfinished work. When I read this book, I like being on his mountain, or what little I’ve seen of it. This is one of the most interesting biographies I’ve ever read, because it bristles and blooms with lots of very deep, very intense insights, and traces the line a person who conducted the entirety of his life as an experiment in the most unremitting of ethical approaches to living, to spiritual evolution, and to creative activity I’ve yet found. I think Ferlinghetti is wrong in the specifics of his charge against those on the mountain, but not in the general importance of his statement, because Daumal lived very much in the heat and heart of his world—Paris—and yet was able to fashion a way into other dimensions and planes of existence. Truly, the doorway opens for you wherever you are. I’m reading this book very slowly, because it packs quite a punch, and offers a lot to savor. Sadly, like Daumal’s work, this book is pretty rare.

Dante Aligheri. The Divine Comedy. Written around 1300, this is the masterwork for so many poets and authors—Gogol, Ezra Pound, and Daumal, too. Gogol’s book was originally conceived as a prose comedy structured on Dante, but he was unable to finish it. Interestingly, Daumal’s Mount Analogue bears a lot of resemblance to Dante’s Purgatory Mount. I’m currently reading Purgatorio. It’s a true beauty. I feel ashamed that, like the Iliad and Odyssey, and the Aeneid as well, I didn’t read this when younger (I’d put the Metamorphoses in this category, too).

The Letters of Abelard and Heloise. A set of letters written around 1140 between Abelard of Brittany, and Heloise of Paris (at that time very much different kingdoms). Eric Gans made me interested in this book, because he states that their relationship serves as an early model for the courtly tradition and our current notions of how passionate love & devotion lead to marriage; both of which are deeply held ideals that persist in various forms to this day. Everything seems to be here—sexual ecstasy merging with religious sensibilities; the lovers becoming a married couple in the face of jealousy and social taboo; and the vicious social and institutional worlds tearing them apart (and for Abelard, quite literally: he was castrated). These letters, beyond giving us the idea of courtly love as an unswerving devotion to a Lady, also encapsulate the foundations of our idea of marriage as a mutually sustaining salve to the shocks and antagonisms of public worlds, public roles, and professional life; indicative of our eventual notions of the public and private spheres as mutually exclusive and supportive. They both had professional lives within the church and in the training of scholars. While, for my money, the story of Majnun and Layla (by the Persian poet Nizami) defines a limit point to transcendent love, this affair of letters presents us with key insights into western ideals of love and marriage. Abelard was also an important figure in shaping our current (or perhaps just recently deceased/dormant) notion of the university as the scene of disputation and dialogue of ideas (thanks to Eric Gans for pointing all of this out to me). Oh, and by the way, these letters are HOT.

Richard Holmes. Shelley: The Pursuit. Classic biography of Percy Bysshe Shelley written in the late 1960s. I’m only up to the year 1812 in this one, but it’s a wild, wild ride!! I never studied or read the English Romantics as a student, so this book forms a core text for my own self-taught course in the period. Other books on my list include: Donald Sutherland’s brilliant On, Romanticism, Wordsworth’s Prelude, all of Keats’ and Shelley’s poetry, Byron’s Don Juan and Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria. I think I’ve read enough Blake to cover that angle for now, but his complete poems are also central to this study. A fuller understanding of romanticism in general would require reading Schlegel in depth, but that opens a whole host of texts in German Idealist philosophy, drama, and Goethe, which would take me too far afield. I’m most interested in the English poetry and historical dimensions here. If anyone wants to sign on with me to read and talk about these books, PLEASE let me know. I’m pretty hungry to talk about this material.

Finally—

of the same time period, but in the “American Salt Mine” category, I’m reading Isabel Thompson Kelsay’s biography of Joseph Brant. Brant is considered by some to be the most famous Native American who ever lived. It’s an amazing text, not for its writing, but for the history given here that I never learned or paid attention to earlier in my life. It’s like getting an entirely new view of 18^th century America & the place where I live.

P.S. If I started listing the poetry I’m reading, it would be another long long list—so, next time, maybe.

Unbecoming February 2008 :: Fields Reshape

The reading and book launch Friday night was a great success. I finished making the book that morning, affixing the Mick Turner image “horsepath” to all 200 copies of Jaye’s book, and in the process inhaling some serious Super 77 spray adhesive fumes. The same day I read a very beautifully written essay on the chapbook from the Rain Taxi online site. It features a discussion of two of my fellow graduate students at U.Buffalo, Kyle Schlesinger and Michael Cross. Both moved away from Buffalo in 2007, but while in town they were printers/publishers of very fine books. Most of Schlesinger’s catalog is priced beyond my budget, but I do have some examples at home of works he gave to me—Ulf Stoltfort’s Lingos, Ron Silliman’s Woundwood, which I helped sew together one evening at Kyle’s then home on Summer Street, Greg Bigglieri’s Sleepy with Democracy, and the tribute volume I Have Imagined a Center // Wilder than this Region published in honor of Susan Howe’s retirement from the UB English Department. Michael Cross was incredibly generous, and gave me many of his Atticus/Finch books produced here in Buffalo—Eli Drabman’s Daylight on the Wires, Kyle Schlesinger and Thom Donovan’s collaborative text Mantle (a great work), and my favorite book design work (perhaps of all books I own): Myung Mi Kim’s River Antes. The resonance of that title is profound—I think of ants, after spending this summer battling/cohabitating with a colony of sweet/grease ants who had invaded my kitchen, the myrmidons of Livingston St.; but also many other echoes—revenants (returning spirits—here furies and absent lives)—“Anti” and “aunty”, but constant reminder of the Niagara River. The closest I got to their printing machine was to help Michael pull and dry covers for John Taggart’s Unveiling / Marianne Moore. Richard Owens, editor of Damn the Caesars has now taken on use of the press, so its revival continues with Punch Press books, broadsides and more.

Friday night’s reading was, for me, a celebration and an excellent chance to showcase the work I've engaged in for the last few weeks—Jaye’s poem. He had read the poem in late June at Eli Drabman's third floor space, and we later edited, designed and assembled the book together. The beauty of the evening--a soft, gentle air, jazz band playing in the restaurant courtyard behind the building, the sound of young Henry running through the upstairs apartment--was in keeping with the relaxed atmosphere one always finds at Rust Belt Books. Jaye’s book is perhaps my favorite of all the little scratch pad editions so far. The work itself attempts both a painter’s description of how a canvas can be conceptualized, and also the effort to arrive at some image, talisman maybe, that can be adequate to what many consider the lowest point of the year in our city—February. I realize now that this past February was an incredibly hard one. Both Liz Mariani and Jaye’s poems were written in February. In late February I found myself forced to sell my beloved car, decided that my acting and improvising efforts for a local theater group weren’t going to bear fruit, and I also hit an emotional stumbling block in my love life that eventually ended it, even though I'd been warned beforehand that I'd be "let go" at a time of my partner's choosing. It’s interesting to think back on that month, 210 days in the past, and see how it has manifested in the works I am engaged with now—Jaye’s book, Liz Mariani’s book, but in my own poetry as well. At the time I was hopeful that a musical duet I was in—we called ourselves The Flatheads—would result in an active and successful songwriting/performing effort. We’d been listening to a lot of Richard and Linda Thompson, and we’d discovered their album Pour Down Like Silver (recommended by Jay Farrar in a Rolling Stone year-end review). So I guess my summer’s work, re-writing Rabindranath Tagore’s Gitanjali, was in a way an attempt to get beyond the difficulties I encountered in February and take the philosophical lessons it provided to a higher level of unity. The truth is: things fall apart. But not things, really, it is our sense of our deepest relation to others—though they fall apart in order to change, keep us ready for change. In the Susan Howe book mentioned above, Elizabeth Willis writes accurately of a February twenty years ago that sounds much like the one we traversed here in 2008: “It is the business of Buffalo weather to assert dominion, to overturn reality in the course of an afternoon” . My reality was overturned on one February day as well—selling my car, realizing I couldn’t take part in an upcoming theater/cabaret, and finding my love life built on unsteady foundations. Of course this was a personal reality that was overturned, but as I see it, it is confirmed by at least two of my Buffalo neighbors & fellow poets who were deep in poetic meditations of their own. One result and resonance of this was Friday night’s book launch & the publishing of Ever After / Never Under.

I started the night by reading Tagore’s poems “The time it will take on this road is long” (#12), “After all this time I still haven’t played the song that I came here to sing” (#13) and “I thought this was the end of the road” (#37). Akrem Serdar was having trouble with a film projector, so I read some of his provided text to the audience. And then Jaye read his poem in two halves, with a preface, interlude and conclusion of some amazing auto-harp playing:

“The grandeur of the sun setting
overwhelms the ominous specter
and the crows the harbingers of ire
become instead a kind contribution”

It was amazing.

Shane Meyer, a promised contribution to our events, arrived after we'd cleared the room & were leaving. He was moving that day. Shane is a great musician. But he's also a very busy man.

Akrem finally got his film to work, though I was out of the room (my speculation is that its because he didn’t make the film in February).

PLEASE NOTE:
I will be playing my first ever full solo set on guitar this Tuesday, September 2, at 10:00 p.m. at Nietzsche's Tavern on Allen St. after the Genuflektors. Please come down to hear! No Cover charge! Tip jar only!

Peace & love my brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers.