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Who are you?

I don’t know. I’ve been reading Martin Buber trying to figure it out. I’ve also been trying to spend more time with real people instead of hiding out with imaginary creatures. I have a list of what I am—but who I am seems far away at the moment.

I think who is better experienced than understood—who exists in its relationship to others—it is the space between the players. Take the film Cat Dancers example, here is a girl, a boy, a cat—who they are seems to exist in the area of that triangle.  I like to watch such areas take shape.

At the moment I’m trying really hard to be more of a player than a voyeur—to experience more—to be more who than what, but this is difficult.

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When you write erotic poems which hand do you use? 

The dominant hand, of course!

 

Currently, what is your favorite word?

Ankle.

 

Who do you listen to when you write?

Glenn Gould’s Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Dexter Gordon’s Round Midnight. Anything Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Eric Dolphy, Chet Baker, Billie Holliday, Booker Little. Or the dear sound of my husband’s breathing.

BOYFRENZ

Is everything okay?

KS: Not really, but also yes. The entire state of Arizona (population seven million) survives only by diverting water from the Colorado River, though the views from the mountains there are unquestionably spiritual. Portland, Oregon (my home) is now the fastest-gentrifying city in the United States, & while myself & many others are actively being priced out of our neighborhoods, there are more job opportunities in the city now than there have been in years. What I’m saying is, many things on this beautiful earth are completely fucked & vice-versa. Our own personal tragedies are (ugh) so tragic, but from them we learn & grow exponentially into bigger, smarter people. I have to believe we are improving, & that we will continue to improve, because otherwise I’d have to believe that everything just kinda sucks. I’m not sure I could make art in a world that just kinda sucks.

TB: Honestly, I’m feeling pretty nervous about this false (?) spring we’re having. It’s late February in Portland, Oregon, & so uncharacteristically sunny & warm that everything’s blooming. There are crocuses (notoriously hardy, I know, but still: February) & daffodils all over, & the flowering trees whose names I don’t memorize are flowering. It bothers me that I can’t remember the names of more kinds of trees, & it bothers me that the trees have started the show so early. Can it last? Are all of the birds even back? Shouldn’t we be shitty until, like, late March? But even more horrifying than a cold snap is the thought that the plants actually know best, because it’s likely they really do, & this is what seasons are like here in already irreversibly fucked 2015, it’s going to keep getting hotter & hotter until we’re trying to go the river one day & realize we’re all just a pile of cinders. Also I’ve never, ever been happier to be alive. Everything (& everyone) looks devastatingly touchable, & the smells are even softer.

mediumhorizontal4TNBYou have referred to Dada in your writing. Why, after almost a century, does Dada matter?
Greil Marcus makes the great point that the Dadaists were the first Punks. They rejected the idea of the “professional artist” and embraced instead being radically playful “amateurs.” An amateur is literally a person who loves something. I resonate with that idea: I love to make writing but I try to refuse – in a hopefully humorous and termitic way — the verbiage of artistic “greatness.” Because I think that language has silenced a lot of creative people ––

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Anthony: The official occasion of this psychotic public conversation is our new book—Thing Music—so let’s begin this disarticulation of our so-called self with that book: what’s it been like having this one out in the world?

Anthony: As we’ve experienced now a number of times the release of a book primarily seems to amplify the need—it feels physical—to get going on another one—this despite the fact—and I think you would agree with me here—that we feel richly satisfied with Thing Music. I can actually read it for pleasure—all the way through. Maybe we’ve felt that way after every book? I can’t remember… This one feels different though—like it’s still a little out in front of us, still teaching us about itself, or better put, has just begun to do so. But that only complicates the problem of where to go next. What’s been your experience: have you been enjoying giving readings from the book?

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Tell us about Fortress. Describe its architecture.

Fortress is my newest book, which was just released by Sundress Publications.  It’s a book-length engagement with Elaine Scarry’s classic work, The Body in Pain.  Fortress begins with an erasure/excavation/rewriting of the first chapter, in which I erase pain from the book.  What’s left?  The small blue thread, the fragile arc, and faint music.

The collection also contains several prose sequences, which engage with the work Romantic poets who experimented with opium.  These “painkiller poems” depict a landscape filled with dead poppies, and consider what it would look like if seen through the eyes of a female speaker.  Underneath all of the dead flowers and burned meadows, though, Fortress is really a love poem.

There are also housefires, red lilies, and a spooky house.  I hope you’ll check it out!

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Hi.

Hi.

 

I’m not sure what to ask you. What question do you always want to be asked that no one ever does?

I’ll answer with the question I often ask writers and performers, which is: How do you enter the outside world and exist after writing/performing such intense pulled-apart language? For me, it’s difficult. I am still figuring that out.

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What is life?

A Hasbro mind game.

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[Questions courtesy of Nicky the Drunk]

When you started writing short pieces, was your purpose to be concise and focused to increase the impact, or do you just hate wasting words?

Well in music and in writing, I tend to like stuff that’s straightforward and stripped down. So the question is always “Does it serve the piece?” I’ve had to cut some of my best lines (or put them in something else) because the answer was “no.” So, like, a song can be ten minutes long if there’s a reason for it to be. Bobby Womack does a version of the standard “(They Long To Be) Close To You” that’s 9 minutes long. It’s really simple, but the nine minutes all serve the piece. But, say, “Freebird”… There’s three minutes of great song there, but it’s nine minutes long. Do you really need to have three solos? No. So cut that shit.

Molly Sutton Kiefer


How has having children changed your writing life?

I’m fairly certainly there is a procrastination gene, and my sister and I inherited it from our mother. (Love you, Mom!) Oftentimes I’ll make myself these charming little lists of goals (see “TNB!!” at top of said list, complete with tipsy exclamation points) and then my son decides to nosedive off the stoop onto a concrete slab or my daughter has just spilled that juice she swore she wouldn’t spill and whoops, it happens to be all over the to-do list and you missed naptime.

I can’t procrastinate. Or rather, I don’t have a choice as to how my procrastination plays out. I’m staying at home while the littles are this little, which means I have these strange slivers of time and rare moments of quiet. I pump that time up with as much poetry-action as I can tolerate. When my daughter was a newborn, I’d write after a mid-night feeding, then crawl back into bed. Now, I find myself writing to the light of my cell phone, trying not to wake my husband or son (we co-sleep and the babe is still nursing), on the backs of old poems, transcribing them the next morning. It’s frantic, but somehow, a thousandfold more productive. I don’t have a choice—if I don’t let the surges occur in the strangest of times, they won’t happen at all. It’s highly productive because I can’t say, “Later.” Later will probably be scrubbing urine from the new carpet.

joshua corey by joanna kramerAre you still a poet? Didn’t you just publish a novel?

Hey, thanks for asking about that. As a matter of fact I did publish my first novel this year: Beautiful Soul: An American Elegy is a kind of mash-up of the domestic drama, the historical novel (focusing on the student rebellions in May ’68 in Paris and also, indirectly, on the Holocaust), and the noir detective story. Laird Hunt said of it that “The push-pull between stunning language and inventive narrative is pure pleasure,” and the critic Daniel Green writes that the novel’s characters “live in language, and to that end the writing in Beautiful Soul, in its scrupulous attention to phrase and image in almost every sentence, could be called an attempt to bring the characters and their milieu to life through the vigor of the words on the page.” It’s available from Spuyten Duyvil Press and SPD and Amazon and it makes an interesting companion piece to The Barons, which is what we’re really here to talk about.

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A lot of poems in your poetry collection Thieves in the Afterlife reference female desire and the body. Have you always written about sexuality?

The first writers I fell in love with were Pablo Neruda, Anais Nin, and Henry Miller. I remember reading Delta of Venus when I was 14 and wanting to write just like her. I was compelled, not necessarily by the content, but by the tough sensuality and unapologetic voice. She was my hero—probably the first model I had for bisexuality and writing outside of standard hetero/gendered love forms.

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So your new book Wet Reckless is broken into four parts. Can you explain what they are?

They are based pretty loosely on places I’ve lived. These are not really all the places I’ve ever lived and they are not really chronological but somehow it works to tell my story. The book is described as poetic memoir.

f2587ffe03646449764f4a747282fd88_400x400What kind of a last name is “Ripatrazone”?

My family’s actual last name is “Ripatransone,” like the town in the Marche region of Italy. The “z” was mistakenly substituted for the “ns” when they reached America. Our lives are filled with those mistakes and misunderstandings. Sometimes it’s best to simply roll with them.

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Isn’t it hard to pen and ask yourself questions that could possibly cause you look like a pompous ass?

Yes, very hard. It is incredibly easy to be seen either way, and this only adds another layer of complexity to the equation. Freud would have a field day with this, wouldn’t he?