byzantium purloined
(Words about Rich Shereikis in the notes)
1.
bones in the alley
the old man's joyce opens
the pages rattle
his cane stands upright next to him
the female vampire wears a gray cloak
chokes on blood & sperm salad
not her usual mix
in the chandeliers of this recognition
glows an image:
burnt splinters of tooth and thigh
unmarked exams dully reflected
in her feral eye;
her mirror voices back:
no image
joyce's old man lies cold,
his desire has gone to smoke
2.
matches & trash & wooden limbs
in carbon's inexorable decay
failures of the testicles
this one won't even enter the alley;
his beard covers the slacking
of his imagination he sleeps
in a den of political snakes, buying
their votes he avoids dying
there are hours of self-punishment
but in his old house doubt is broken
into diamonds of power
he leads the pediatricians' revolt
he blasts holes into wagons
he covers his rear w/sandpaper
his quart of shakespear gives him courage
his toothy fish lives in a mirror
3.
the ardent pony checks his one trick
his fleece blonde stage gray freckled hair
his cover the failure of his courage
he suffers from the Wound caught at da nang
though now he claims it was in the DMZ
it was only a matter of sport of course
to prove he could play baseball
to prove he could still score
this is such a lonely miser's list
afflicted humans, leprous in my mirror
the voices come blank soon enough
the holocaust removed the critic
these sailors drowned on the rocks
just off the island
this is a movie for the mass murderer
he who gave life in order to rip it off
not to be sacrilegious but manson said it best
fear is awareness
I have gotten the fear, Charlie
Something I haven't done that much in my life: this is a poem about an event, or series of events, that happened in the lit department at sangamon state university in 1980-81. I had gotten sucked into the politics of the department. I knew all those people, some for more than a decade. BB and Knoepfle had got me to put in for the second grad asstship they had acquired, so that poor old Victor Pearn wouldn't get it and drive Knoepfle crazy. It is somewhat ironic that nowadays they read on the same bill in Springfield, Victor having become the same kind of lame-ass academic poet as Knoepfle. Pretty funny.
It has come to my attention that Rich Shereikis died in Evanston at 75 this last week, and people are coming to this blog looking for mention of the man. I saw plenty of Rich in the 70s and read lots of his reviews in the 80s. What this poem describes did happen, and he certainly had a part in it. A part that I know from speaking to him years later that he had some regrets about. I don't think he was a great writer, or a great reviewer, or even really had much of a handle on literature in general, but, hey what do I know? I do know he was a good guy with a sports buzz and I've tipped many a drink with him, once a year at least, and a few times at Norb Andys. His wife was a nice person too. So, passersby, I don't take any of this back. I know for a fact that Rich got terrible reviews from his students in the 1970s. Maybe later he was a better prof. I don't know. He criticized my writing plenty and sometimes he was right and sometimes he was wrong. I am probably about the same speaking of him. But I didn't take thousands of dollars from students like he did, and Knoepfle did. I guess they gave them degrees. Yeah, that's the rationale. Well. I am sorry to hear Rich has left the building, but he's facing his own faults and doesn't need me or you to yack on about them. He'll be whoever he chooses in the great beyond. But at least he'll be forced to acknowledge the truth. That will help him some.
As to the poem:
In any case, to tell the tale, the other members of the lit department were completely jealous of Knoepfle and Jackie Jackson because they had followings in the student body and always had full classes. Whereas Rich Shereikis and Mike Lennon and even, and especially, Norman Hinton did not get the students, being utterly boring pedants. But to get even with those who deigned to take creative classes over literature, as they defined it, they changed the rules and rammed in a letter grading system where had been a pass/fail. Well, it was a school founded in the sixties.
In the midst of all this came this really evil cunt named Becky Blair. She was a vampire if ever there was a vampire and she wore a gray cloak all the time. She was beautiful and sexy and she wrapped Norman Hinton around her little finger. And she also conspired with those folks on the this grade change thing.
So they had their way, all of them selling out. I also blame Judy Everson. But, in particular the three men forced the issue and Becky Blair made it possible for Norman to call me a liar in a formal meeting, though it wasn't true. I knew I was out at that point and that I would never get a diploma from SSU while Norman was there.
You see the verses: Norman in the first. I took a Yeats class from him and realized at one point, as he interpreted a Yeats piece, that he didn't understand what the poet was saying. I was smart enough not to tell him and so got an A in the class (the previous semester). He was deeply into Joyce; very academic you know. I remember my sister bought me Ulysses for xmas in 1967 because she couldn't get through it and needed me to read it and explain it to her. She was in grad school in St. Louis at the time. Norman Hinton was later on her phd committee. Birds of a feather.
The second verse is Mike Lennon, a sad little man who did love certain macho writers: Mailer and James Jones. Yawn.
And finally Rich Shereikis in the third stanza. He could of been a contender Mom! Honest, he nearly played semi-pro baseball. I got drunk at Rich's house every spring when they had the party after the Festival of the Verbal Arts, which Knoepfle ran so he could get some bookings for himself by booking his friends. That is pretty much how poetry works in this country. I say these things. Are you surprised I don't get published? It's a snobby little club and they are very jealous of what little funds they can dredge up from the academic world. It was a sad lesson for me to learn, how little art has to do with passing for a poet today. Even a talented man like Kevin Stein ultimately becomes a pedantic little boy, goshing about how great his institution is. And Knoepfle turned out to be a total hypocritical suckup who is terribly frightened by gay men. Wonder why.
1.
bones in the alley
the old man's joyce opens
the pages rattle
his cane stands upright next to him
the female vampire wears a gray cloak
chokes on blood & sperm salad
not her usual mix
in the chandeliers of this recognition
glows an image:
burnt splinters of tooth and thigh
unmarked exams dully reflected
in her feral eye;
her mirror voices back:
no image
joyce's old man lies cold,
his desire has gone to smoke
2.
matches & trash & wooden limbs
in carbon's inexorable decay
failures of the testicles
this one won't even enter the alley;
his beard covers the slacking
of his imagination he sleeps
in a den of political snakes, buying
their votes he avoids dying
there are hours of self-punishment
but in his old house doubt is broken
into diamonds of power
he leads the pediatricians' revolt
he blasts holes into wagons
he covers his rear w/sandpaper
his quart of shakespear gives him courage
his toothy fish lives in a mirror
3.
the ardent pony checks his one trick
his fleece blonde stage gray freckled hair
his cover the failure of his courage
he suffers from the Wound caught at da nang
though now he claims it was in the DMZ
it was only a matter of sport of course
to prove he could play baseball
to prove he could still score
this is such a lonely miser's list
afflicted humans, leprous in my mirror
the voices come blank soon enough
the holocaust removed the critic
these sailors drowned on the rocks
just off the island
this is a movie for the mass murderer
he who gave life in order to rip it off
not to be sacrilegious but manson said it best
fear is awareness
I have gotten the fear, Charlie
Something I haven't done that much in my life: this is a poem about an event, or series of events, that happened in the lit department at sangamon state university in 1980-81. I had gotten sucked into the politics of the department. I knew all those people, some for more than a decade. BB and Knoepfle had got me to put in for the second grad asstship they had acquired, so that poor old Victor Pearn wouldn't get it and drive Knoepfle crazy. It is somewhat ironic that nowadays they read on the same bill in Springfield, Victor having become the same kind of lame-ass academic poet as Knoepfle. Pretty funny.
It has come to my attention that Rich Shereikis died in Evanston at 75 this last week, and people are coming to this blog looking for mention of the man. I saw plenty of Rich in the 70s and read lots of his reviews in the 80s. What this poem describes did happen, and he certainly had a part in it. A part that I know from speaking to him years later that he had some regrets about. I don't think he was a great writer, or a great reviewer, or even really had much of a handle on literature in general, but, hey what do I know? I do know he was a good guy with a sports buzz and I've tipped many a drink with him, once a year at least, and a few times at Norb Andys. His wife was a nice person too. So, passersby, I don't take any of this back. I know for a fact that Rich got terrible reviews from his students in the 1970s. Maybe later he was a better prof. I don't know. He criticized my writing plenty and sometimes he was right and sometimes he was wrong. I am probably about the same speaking of him. But I didn't take thousands of dollars from students like he did, and Knoepfle did. I guess they gave them degrees. Yeah, that's the rationale. Well. I am sorry to hear Rich has left the building, but he's facing his own faults and doesn't need me or you to yack on about them. He'll be whoever he chooses in the great beyond. But at least he'll be forced to acknowledge the truth. That will help him some.
As to the poem:
In any case, to tell the tale, the other members of the lit department were completely jealous of Knoepfle and Jackie Jackson because they had followings in the student body and always had full classes. Whereas Rich Shereikis and Mike Lennon and even, and especially, Norman Hinton did not get the students, being utterly boring pedants. But to get even with those who deigned to take creative classes over literature, as they defined it, they changed the rules and rammed in a letter grading system where had been a pass/fail. Well, it was a school founded in the sixties.
In the midst of all this came this really evil cunt named Becky Blair. She was a vampire if ever there was a vampire and she wore a gray cloak all the time. She was beautiful and sexy and she wrapped Norman Hinton around her little finger. And she also conspired with those folks on the this grade change thing.
So they had their way, all of them selling out. I also blame Judy Everson. But, in particular the three men forced the issue and Becky Blair made it possible for Norman to call me a liar in a formal meeting, though it wasn't true. I knew I was out at that point and that I would never get a diploma from SSU while Norman was there.
You see the verses: Norman in the first. I took a Yeats class from him and realized at one point, as he interpreted a Yeats piece, that he didn't understand what the poet was saying. I was smart enough not to tell him and so got an A in the class (the previous semester). He was deeply into Joyce; very academic you know. I remember my sister bought me Ulysses for xmas in 1967 because she couldn't get through it and needed me to read it and explain it to her. She was in grad school in St. Louis at the time. Norman Hinton was later on her phd committee. Birds of a feather.
The second verse is Mike Lennon, a sad little man who did love certain macho writers: Mailer and James Jones. Yawn.
And finally Rich Shereikis in the third stanza. He could of been a contender Mom! Honest, he nearly played semi-pro baseball. I got drunk at Rich's house every spring when they had the party after the Festival of the Verbal Arts, which Knoepfle ran so he could get some bookings for himself by booking his friends. That is pretty much how poetry works in this country. I say these things. Are you surprised I don't get published? It's a snobby little club and they are very jealous of what little funds they can dredge up from the academic world. It was a sad lesson for me to learn, how little art has to do with passing for a poet today. Even a talented man like Kevin Stein ultimately becomes a pedantic little boy, goshing about how great his institution is. And Knoepfle turned out to be a total hypocritical suckup who is terribly frightened by gay men. Wonder why.
Labels: Becky Blair, Jackie Jackson, Joyce, Knoepfle, Mike Lennon, Norman Hinton, Rich Shereikis, W.B. Yeats
posted by As Bjorn at 9:36 PM
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