There's another angry young woman
signing a proclamation, another
type of order bent on chaos
organizes itself into a Breck Girl
because things are what they are
underneath it all, under the illusion
of the titles popping up
like crop circles.
The tiresome act of living
coupled with living itself
combined with the truth that
is
out
there
invisible to the naked eye
available to a select few
who have been informed
this isn't for everybody,
don't try too hard lest
you break your neck trying.
Yet one more tupperwarewastebasket of soiledpantyliners discovered by archeologists
K Silem Mohamed prefaces the tired old-fashioned essay which seconds as a book of poems thusly:
"The poems in Terminal Humming often take the form of an unregulated swirl of voices, as though from different sectors of some public space filled with furtive private dramas ... kind of like a humming terminal. Pronouns shift from singular to plural with breakneck suddenness, so that the speaker seems to be continually teleporting outside of her own embodied situation and observing its multiplication into disparate scenarios. This description makes it sound as if it could come off as a certain type of tired postmodernist "interrogation of the self," but it's much livelier than that. The emphasis is less on states of awareness than on unique actions and constellations of events--a continually shifting mise en scene for an unspecified production. From "An Attempt to Unleash Inner Badness Ends Thus" "
...and we are treated to an excerpt of boring feminist "post modernist" if you will claptrap.
Are you serious Mr. Mohamed? Are you really serious? Has this stuff gone to your head and have you actually read Howl? Or Whitman? Or let's be fair and say El Bishop?
This isn't good poetry and it isn't even good feminism if such a thing actually exists as something that is separate from its root cause, which, if addressed, annhilates it's own reason to exist. This is generational and evolutional commercialism complete with product placement that astounds anyone who has ever read a fantabulous book known as the Liar's Club in which dippity-do plays a cameo role....
One of my problems with quasi feminism and the quasi feminist generation that we know exists today is that it is a parody of the actual product known as feminism and even more importantly, PERSONAL feminism that is not only land locked but uninformed and exploitative of the process. This generation of poets, particularly the Girlesque (not Nada of course cuz she is way smarter than all of that and way older)...is that they don't know the history of the National Geographic that El wrote of so eloquently as she attended to one of those old days types of dentist office visits that your aunt might take you to. And marvel at the boobies...it was extraordinary!
They've no clue and worse, they've no solution because they do not understand the root causes of human error and specifically, male error. Male error is everywhere NOW and throughout time, as we examine and exhume the remains of previous generations who were more pro woman and less pro woman...we might be surprised to find out that we live in one of the most male dominated and male messed up eras of time.
Just talking about it isn't enough in my estimation and this book so obviously does more of the same. Blah blah blah and here I am. Jello is as Jello does you know!
But you know...maybe that's her point. And maybe she doesn't know it as the poet. Who knows and who can tell from the excerpts I have thus far read.
It appears to be another tiresome and in that, genuine feminist manifesto and gosh...those just aren't that rare nor is this writing indicative of anything particularly new or worth the five bucks it would cost me to find out.
http://aerialedge.com/TerminalHumming.htm
Or you can spend your time and money wisely and at the same time, investigate the problem of feminism by purchasing this:
"The Liars' Club" deserves its wide audience. Karr is a shrewd, plucky and deeply observant storyteller, and she expertly spins out the details of her family's life in small-town Texas in the 1950s. Her mother was a kind of "Bohemian Scarlett O'Hara" whose wild streak (and seven marriages) shocked Karr's neighbors; a devoted parent, she would also be subject to destructive rages and psychotic episodes. Her father was a brawling oil worker, a generally taciturn man who came most fully alive when he told stories, spinning out whoppers with a group of men called "The Liars' Club." Karr's greatest achievement, though, is her ability to climb inside her own 8-year-old cranium. She evokes the landscape of a preadolescent mind with such exactitude -- fights, fears, petty jealousies -- that "The Liars' Club" stands as one of the best books ever written about growing up female (or growing up, period) in America. "
http://www.salon.com/may97/karr970521.html
I suggest the latter and then, if you like...read this boring little treatise for comparison's sake alone.
signing a proclamation, another
type of order bent on chaos
organizes itself into a Breck Girl
because things are what they are
underneath it all, under the illusion
of the titles popping up
like crop circles.
The tiresome act of living
coupled with living itself
combined with the truth that
is
out
there
invisible to the naked eye
available to a select few
who have been informed
this isn't for everybody,
don't try too hard lest
you break your neck trying.
Yet one more tupperwarewastebasket of soiledpantyliners discovered by archeologists
K Silem Mohamed prefaces the tired old-fashioned essay which seconds as a book of poems thusly:
"The poems in Terminal Humming often take the form of an unregulated swirl of voices, as though from different sectors of some public space filled with furtive private dramas ... kind of like a humming terminal. Pronouns shift from singular to plural with breakneck suddenness, so that the speaker seems to be continually teleporting outside of her own embodied situation and observing its multiplication into disparate scenarios. This description makes it sound as if it could come off as a certain type of tired postmodernist "interrogation of the self," but it's much livelier than that. The emphasis is less on states of awareness than on unique actions and constellations of events--a continually shifting mise en scene for an unspecified production. From "An Attempt to Unleash Inner Badness Ends Thus" "
...and we are treated to an excerpt of boring feminist "post modernist" if you will claptrap.
Are you serious Mr. Mohamed? Are you really serious? Has this stuff gone to your head and have you actually read Howl? Or Whitman? Or let's be fair and say El Bishop?
This isn't good poetry and it isn't even good feminism if such a thing actually exists as something that is separate from its root cause, which, if addressed, annhilates it's own reason to exist. This is generational and evolutional commercialism complete with product placement that astounds anyone who has ever read a fantabulous book known as the Liar's Club in which dippity-do plays a cameo role....
One of my problems with quasi feminism and the quasi feminist generation that we know exists today is that it is a parody of the actual product known as feminism and even more importantly, PERSONAL feminism that is not only land locked but uninformed and exploitative of the process. This generation of poets, particularly the Girlesque (not Nada of course cuz she is way smarter than all of that and way older)...is that they don't know the history of the National Geographic that El wrote of so eloquently as she attended to one of those old days types of dentist office visits that your aunt might take you to. And marvel at the boobies...it was extraordinary!
They've no clue and worse, they've no solution because they do not understand the root causes of human error and specifically, male error. Male error is everywhere NOW and throughout time, as we examine and exhume the remains of previous generations who were more pro woman and less pro woman...we might be surprised to find out that we live in one of the most male dominated and male messed up eras of time.
Just talking about it isn't enough in my estimation and this book so obviously does more of the same. Blah blah blah and here I am. Jello is as Jello does you know!
But you know...maybe that's her point. And maybe she doesn't know it as the poet. Who knows and who can tell from the excerpts I have thus far read.
It appears to be another tiresome and in that, genuine feminist manifesto and gosh...those just aren't that rare nor is this writing indicative of anything particularly new or worth the five bucks it would cost me to find out.
http://aerialedge.com/TerminalHumming.htm
Or you can spend your time and money wisely and at the same time, investigate the problem of feminism by purchasing this:
"The Liars' Club" deserves its wide audience. Karr is a shrewd, plucky and deeply observant storyteller, and she expertly spins out the details of her family's life in small-town Texas in the 1950s. Her mother was a kind of "Bohemian Scarlett O'Hara" whose wild streak (and seven marriages) shocked Karr's neighbors; a devoted parent, she would also be subject to destructive rages and psychotic episodes. Her father was a brawling oil worker, a generally taciturn man who came most fully alive when he told stories, spinning out whoppers with a group of men called "The Liars' Club." Karr's greatest achievement, though, is her ability to climb inside her own 8-year-old cranium. She evokes the landscape of a preadolescent mind with such exactitude -- fights, fears, petty jealousies -- that "The Liars' Club" stands as one of the best books ever written about growing up female (or growing up, period) in America. "
http://www.salon.com/may97/karr970521.html
I suggest the latter and then, if you like...read this boring little treatise for comparison's sake alone.
San Pantaleone Sees Anne Sexton On The Corniche In Beirut
Becoming a parody of oneself is not so bad when you figure everything is a bit fetish, the tickling tease of the ego." - Dr. Soandso, 1990, Commencement address, Bryn Mawr: "The history of stereographic photos revealing ladies' bloomers and the moral controversies of our time."
Oh that divine itch!
The fuel of the fire, man
-the fractional distillation
-the rising to the top
-the sparkling rumination.
Oh that jet fuel!
How it makes us fly!
A system of clockwork,
spins its spine,
the Hurly Gurly
at Lunatic Park,
the Hurly Gurly
at Lunatic Park,
ferris wheel and gypsy
in our hokey hoboken
on the boardwalk
lit up in the dark,
the sea is waiting
to see under her skirt
her frantic nipples
and her eyes so alert!
Our Hurly Gurly of Lunatic Park.
According the the National Organization for Women (NOW), here are some statistics about violence against women in the mostly arreligious vis a vis Christian Free World aka The West aka USA, which is of course a Non Muslim country and in a state of Jahaliya (ignorance):
In 2005, 1,181 women were murdered by an intimate partner.1 That's an average of three women every day. Of all the women murdered in the U.S., about one-third were killed by an intimate partner.2
According to the National Crime Victimization Survey, which includes crimes that were not reported to the police, 232,960 women in the U.S. were raped or sexually assaulted in 2006. That's more than 600 women every day.6 Other estimates, such as those generated by the FBI, are much lower because they rely on data from law enforcement agencies. A significant number of crimes are never even reported for reasons that include the victim's feeling that nothing can/will be done and the personal nature of the incident.7
Young women, low-income women and some minorities are disproportionately victims of domestic violence and rape. Women ages 20-24 are at greatest risk of nonfatal domestic violence8, and women age 24 and under suffer from the highest rates of rape.9 The Justice Department estimates that one in five women will experience rape or attempted rape during their college years, and that less than five percent of these rapes will be reported.10 Income is also a factor: the poorer the household, the higher the rate of domestic violence -- with women in the lowest income category experiencing more than six times the rate of nonfatal intimate partner violence as compared to women in the highest income category.11 When we consider race, we see that African-American women face higher rates of domestic violence than white women, and American-Indian women are victimized at a rate more than double that of women of other races.12
The Centers for Disease Control estimates that the cost of domestic violence in 2003 was more than over $8.3 billion. This cost includes medical care, mental health services, and lost productivity. 14
