a grad student at Chapman University in Orange County, CA:
How have you become a cultural critic, what do you feel are the ramifications of that role, and what do you hope to accomplish and what are the goals you have in your tent city project? What do you find most compelling about that particular environment?
-I’ve always been interested in social issues. How can a writer not be? As an immigrant, I’ve also had many delightful or humiliating opportunities to reexamine all societal norms, from how to lean on a wall, masticate, to the elaborate schticks of a poetry reading, not that I employ any of them. I’m perfectly natural. Besides the U.S., I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Vietnam as an adult, so I’ve had a few chances to compare differences between cultures. What interests me most is the issue of power. Who has it? How is it gained? How is it deployed? Power is not just a bomb or a left hook, but the inflection of a single word. Who dares to unleash such a weapon?
How do you see your documentation of societal ills in photography different/similar to being a poet?
-There are many overlaps between the two arts. In each, I try to create an emblematic moment, to make each photo or poem represent life as a whole. (The fact that I fail nearly always is inconsequential.) In a successful, triumphant work of art, there should be beauty and tension, just as in real life, a bit of raw, erotic tickling coupled with an endless perspective of post-coital bewilderment, memory loss and nostalgia, maybe a plastic skull in a corner. As I practice it, photography forces me to become more civic and social. Walking miles to take photos, I get to experience actual environments with my body. I sweat, freeze, bump into people. Photography is also bad for my liver, since I sometimes drink with my subjects.
What are the ranges of responses you have received from your project and have you ever feared for your personal safety?
-A few praises but mostly indifference, but I don’t fret since I will make sure my enemies pay for this gravest of insults against my dignity. My wife gets nervous because I often stray into the shittiest neighborhoods. As for photographing people without permission, I have written, “Most people don't mind being photographed, many do love it, but they don't want to reliquish control over their self-presentation. That's all we're about, really. Posing and voguing. I must be seen in the proper light, from the right angle, with every hair and comma in place. Denied this right, I might just break your bleep bleep camera.”
You talked of the line between witness and exploitation; how does this apply to your project?
-In a talk I gave at Texas State, I showed a few photos by Peter van Agtmael. Embedded with American troops in Iraq, he accompanied them as they barged into people’s homes. He photographed terrified civilians, including a boy with a bloodied face. Granted, van Agtmael did document some abuses by “our boys,” and his very presence likely prevented them from doing worse, but to an Iraqi family, I’m sure he was just another foreign invader. Imagine Vietnamese troops kicking down your door, turning your house inside out, with me snapping your wimpering mom as she cowers beneath the flat screen TV. I also showed Kevin Carter’s photo of a vulture lurking near a starving Sudanese toddler. That’s certainly emblematic, since every photographer, and, by extension, viewer, is a vulture. Having said all that, I try my best not to offend anyone when I take candid pictures on the streets. One must be sneaky, and I’ve gotten better at it.
You spoke of the poet as the “aristocrat of the servant class,” could you give your perspective on the “servant class” you mentioned?
-I've written poems about this. One was published in a recent issue of Harper’s and included in my new book, Some Kind Of Cheese Orgy (Chax 2009):
Clean, Clean, Clean
Belonging to the lower class, you’re expected
To cater to the upper class’ lower bodily functions,
Not to engage their minds but to wipe their asses,
Kiss their cunts on demand, suck cocks for tips,
Unless, of course, you’re an artist, in which case,
You’re an aristocrat of the servant class, to quote
That grand maestro among slaves, Jasper Johns.
I used to clean apartments and houses.
Showing up for a new job, I was greeted
By the mistress, "I have the most respect
For new immigrants. You work so hard!”
Down low, you’ll get a disproportionate
Low down on all things funky and nasty,
Nothing unusual, really, just shit and stuff.
I cleaned toilets and fridges, folded panties,
Got on all fours, dipped into the suspicious.
A young woman confided, "I moved to Philly
Because California women were so beautiful."
She was usually home when I came. The spine
Of her soft porn book turned to the wall. They all
Had some smut in the house. This was before
The internet made these sad and surreptitious
Purchases unnecessary. I found a teen-aged
Madonna in a closet, so I knelt and sighed.
A fat one lived alone, but once she said, "Sorry,
The house is so messy today. I had company
Last night," and her face brightened angelically.
You spoke of being a “whore” in the piece you did for the New York Times: could you elaborate?-I felt whorish because I could only express half of what I wanted to say. For this, I only have myself to blame. For the last five years, I’ve been obsessed about the economy. I knew it would collapse. In 2005, I taught, for the first time, a poetry writing workshop called State of the Union. Students were asked to examine the alarming state of our country, at variance with the muzak tinkling from Washington and mainstream media. I discussed peak oil, mortgage frauds and the criminal complicity of our government. None of these topics made it into my New York Times article, however, because all they wanted was a personal account of someone making do with less, not my railing against Wall Street, Washington or, god forbid, the mainstream media. The series itself is called “Happy Days.” Its main thrust is complacency.
What is your perspective on being a poet outside of academia?-I never finished college and have worked as a filing clerk, house cleaner, window washer, art installer and house painter. At 40, I got my first teaching job when Bard hired me for a few weeks. Ann Lauterbach has had me back several times and I’ve also taught briefly at U Penn, Montana and Naropa. My academic career has been sporadic, to say the least. The academy is fine and neccessary but it’s not good when nearly all of our poets are walled inside it. The academy is a utopia because that’s where our most untainted, optimistic and beautiful gather, and I’m only talking about the students, of course. Poets shouldn’t loiter in paradise. Paying through his nose, a young person drops into utopia, does a few hits of acid then leaves, but you can’t get rid of a tenured rhymeister with a crowbar, even if he hasn’t written anything in decades, if ever.
Are there any canonical / contemporary artist you feel write in a style or with a purpose similar to yours?-In a
2004 interview, I talked about Louis Ferdinand Céline, how I admired his energy, his dark sense of humor and the grittiness of his observations. Céline was someone who came into contact with a lot of people. That physical willingness to engage people is very attractive to me.
You write in prose as well as poetry; could you describe the similarity/differences you find between the genres?-Poets enjamb, prose writers don’t, but syntax is absolutely crucial. One cannot become
even a half-assed writer without knowing how to construct a sentence many different ways. Clauses are my best friends.
You spoke of “reevaluating your relationship with the internet; could you explain how the internet has impacted your work and what you mean by reevaluation?-The internet is certainly very useful but it also encourages bad reading, writing and
living habits. Photography has helped to lure me away from this world wide dumpster but, paradoxically, it’s also where I post all of my fine photos. Though media are comfortable blinders for us postmodern zombies, we must nevertheless strive to live life more in the flesh. Do you know where you are? Turn off the television and radio, crush that ipod. Do you need to hear that ditty for the millionth time? Our minds are so cluttered with repetitive trivia.
How do you view the success of the beat poets?-I admire that Ginsberg managed to become a public figure, someone who could command an international stage to address the biggest issues. Among contemporary American poets, we don’t have anyone like that. The allure of bohemia, common to the Beats and Abstract Expressionists of that era, is also gone. While in college in the 80’s, I could still be inspired by Franz Kline saying, “A bohemian could survive in a place where an animal would die,” and I’m quoting from memory, so it’s probably slightly off. Today, most poets are careerists who dream of never having to leave the academy. Their motto, Tweed jacket from cradle to grave!
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