Anyone Can Drive My Car white

7.10.14

 















Most Gradual American Poetry 2015

What is Gradualism?  
Trend Spotting in The American Gradualist Poetic 
How Can We Tell: The Gradual Manifesto
Where has Gradualism bean?  
Where is Gradualism going?
Must Gradualism Take Awhile?
What the Gradualist Really Wants
A Laconic Pack of Shaggy Dogs – Is Gradualicide inevitable?
Zero Sum Gradualism and the Limits of Perceptibility
At the Equivocal Boundary of Expression: Why Gradualism Natters: 
We can say that Gradual Poetry has long ceased to matter,
Gradual Poetry makes mutter happen;
Gradualism never met an ellipsi it didn't like;
Drop It: Resisting the UnGradual Impulse
The Monotonic Voice: Sooner, Later or Both?
The Concrete Gradualist
A Paste Too Far: Conceptual Gradualism
Where Gradual Gay Cowboy Language Poetry Lacks
When Gradualism Finally Confesses







white 4:02 AM




Anyone Can Drive My Car white

5.8.14

 
Taking some "folks" for a walk…

We tortured some folks.  
We killed some folks.  
We incarcerated some folks. 
We harassed some folks.  
We removed some folks.  
We tapped some folks.  
Some folks inform for us.  
We taxed some folks. 
Some folks something fierce. 
Folks can enter any emergency room in this country and receive medical attention.  
We treated some folks.
We treated some folks.  
To smallpox blankets.  
We stole from some folks.  
We signed treaties with some folks and then we broke them.  
We took rivers, mountains, valleys and plains from lots of folk.  
We marched some folks.  
We reduced some folks.  
We redacted some folks.  
We cited some folks.  
We deeded some folks, 40 acres and a mule. 
We converted some folks, and yes we cluster bombed some folks.  
Some of these folks were small and we regret that..  
We sterilized some folks.
We gave VD to some folks.
We gave some folks Placebo.
We lynched some folks.
Some folks made postcards.  
We fed some folks.  
We zoned some folks right out of the picture.  
We incorporated some folks.  
Corporation is folks, though not the some folks variety.  
Some folks we let eat drink and breathe poison.   Back in the day?  
What can we say about it now, that was bad, that was heinous that was evil, what we did.  
We'd do it again, just kidding.  
We drafted some folks.  
We little brown brothered some folks.  
We supplied weapons to some folks.  
We trained some folks.  
Best we could...  


white 10:20 AM




Anyone Can Drive My Car white

27.3.14

 
P U B L I C A T I O N S






Available in print here















































































































Lyric Flypaper Paging Chris Sullivan







Mere Nola





























                P U B L I C A T I O N S

My Life in the Photo Booth
Tumbleweeds and Stuff
Underperforming Billboard Dreams in New Orleans
The Boss Chocko Soliloquys
Great Moments in Medicine:
DIY Couch Demo
Discount Tree Cutting
For I Will Consider My Chum Penny
About the Author
Nearly a Monograph of Lester Carey:
Market Paintings of Po Boys in New Orleans 2005-7
NOTICE THIS IS A RUG FREE WORKPLACE
Flower Photography in the Nineties
The Journal of Public Domain
The Garage Door Storey
4 Editions of Babel-17
The Coffee Shop Photographs
Language Photography and Preservation of Beauty in My Neighborhood
The Distributed If Story
Inspector Wear Skirts: Thai Movie Posters 1988
My Thai Look Book
Last Day of the Marin Flea Market





















white 8:00 PM




Anyone Can Drive My Car white

7.3.14

 
Notes toward a couch story: 1



In the beginning there was a 4 piece sectional in the living room.  My earliest memory of it has me watching the Beatles first appearance on the Ed Sullivan show, when I was six. I was allowed to stay up late to see it.  I remember the excitement of my older sister Frances, fuzzy black and white images and she loves you, yeah yeah yeah.  Its dark but for the light of the tv and I can't recall the upholstery in this memory, but that it was a little drab.  This was in Carmel, New York, at the end of a long driveway off of Highway 52 that announced itself with 4 sculptures of giant milk bottles, two quarts and two pints, for our house had been converted from a dairy barn. 

Later that year the couch made its way to a pink three bedroom tract home at 339 Cinderella Lane in Goleta, California.  I was surprised when I got off the plane, because the western shows I liked to watch made me think we were moving to a place of dusty streets and wooden sidewalks, horses hitched to posts and swinging saloon doors rudely pushed open by men with shooters strapped to their hips.  The couch was kind of dowdy, with skirting around the bottom and polished wooden armrests; it had two 4' bench sections at either end, then a single seat, then a curved middle section that connected to the last section.  It was reupholstered in 1965 with fabric designs that repeated scenes from colonial american life, to match the Ethan Allan coffee and end tables that sported an imposing pair of rooster lamps.  Sunday mornings our parents slept in and we enjoyed this unsupervised time to play in ways forbidden when they were about.  Kevin and I were goofing in the living room, pretending that the carpet was molten lava and leaping over the safe continents of couch to the island of footstool; soon pillows were being tossed and cushions turned into shields until I, being the youngest and a little hyperactive, picked up the cushion of a 4' section and hoisted it over my head for the purpose of conking my brother.




My father had just completed a months long endeavor, of assembling an advanced plastic model kit of the 19th century warship U.S. Constitution.  He had done a beautiful job of it, masterfully applying glue, paint and rigging, and it was a marvel.  He then suspended the finished work from the ceiling of the living room.  That was on Saturday, putting it in the way of my raised cushion that Sunday morning, and it all came crashing down.  Two of its masts were snapped, its intricate rigging trashed.  I hoped somehow it could be fixed.  He was decisive when he saw it what I'd done, picking it up, assessing it for a moment and then taking it out to the trash.  I don't remember him saying a word, but that he soon left the house and we did not see him until mid afternoon.  He had a kickball for me and told me I should play with it outside. Today I remain hushed by his restraint.  It wasn't a frivolous hobby. He’d quit drinking in 1963, and our home was, among others, a cauldron of stress in the presence of chronic and tragic illness in the wake of a medical catastrophe that afflicted my mother in 1958.   So that model making was his respite in the garage, listening to the radio, drinking coffee, smoking and pleasing himself by doing work he was good at to produce a centerpiece for all that early americana in the living room, lasting for all of a day.  His interests went through phases, and later it was tropical fish until there were 5 aquariums in the house.



The fifth was a 10-gallon tank in the recreation room he had built around the patio. There was a walking catfish in that tank.  Forget to close the lid and soon it would be on the lam, wriggling its way in search of the next pond.  We found it and returned it several times, but for the last.  Much later, I found its desiccated remains under the sectional couch in the living room.  It had travelled through three rooms to get there.






















white 7:02 AM

































Chris Sullivan thingnamer at gmail