JACK COLLOM R.I.P.

I didn't know poet Jack Collom well. I met him a few times and I think was on the same bill with him at a poetry reading years ago. But everyone I knew who knew him better than me had nothing but good things to say about him. And I knew his poetry, which I like. If you don't know his work, the book to get is his big one: RED CAR GOES BY: Selected Poems 1955-2000. Rest In Poetry, Jack.

(PS: I wanted to quote from one of the poems in it, but I can't find my copy. It sat on a shelf on one of the three giant seven-foot-high, seven-shelf bookcases I have in my bedroom (with my tiny one drawer desk and twin bed in my monk's lifestyle), but I started rearranging my books a while ago and got stuck halfway through, and now books are all over the apartment in unfamiliar ways on various other bookcases and RED CAR GOES BY just isn't jumping out for me.

But here's another poem of Jack Collom's I found online (and here's a good obit on him):

Ecology

BY JACK COLLOM

Surrounded by bone, surrounded by cells,

by rings, by rings of hell, by hair, surrounded by

air-is-a-thing, surrounded by silhouette, by honey-wet bees, yet

by skeletons of trees, surrounded by actual, yes, for practical

purposes, people, surrounded by surreal

popcorn, surrounded by the reborn: Surrender in the center

to surroundings. O surrender forever, never

end her, let her blend around, surrender to the surroundings that

surround the tender endo-surrender, that

tumble through the tumbling to that blue that

curls around the crumbling, to that, the blue that

rumbles under the sun bounding the pearl that

we walk on, talk on; we can chalk that

up to experience, sensing the brown here that’s

blue now, a drop of water surrounding a cow that’s

black & white, the warbling Blackburnian twitter that’s

machining midnight orange in the light that’s

glittering in the light green visible wind. That’s

the ticket to the tunnel through the thicket that’s

a cricket’s funnel of music to correct & pick it out

from under the wing that whirls up over & out.

NOT MY MEME BUT WORTH SHARING

YEP

BABY DRIVER

Once I got over the fact that this movie didn't have anything to do with Jan Kerouac's book, BABY DRIVER, and went to check it out on its own terms, my first reaction to the opening was, nicely done, and then, who is this kid in the title role and is he up to the challenge and whoa, he sure as feck is.

Ansel Elgort seemed too soft and child/teen-actorish in appearance, at first, to convince me he could pull off the lead in the stellar cast, but he ends up giving one of the best performances of the year, I'd say, along with everyone else in the flick. Just one of the reasons to praise director/writer Edgar Wright.

An unlikely candidate to direct a more-or-less classic Hollywood heist flick, Wright proves the eye and ear for fast-paced writing, directing and editing that made him successful in his most famous gigs until this one—SHAUN OF THE DEAD, et. al.—have been honed to perfection and surpassed my expectations very satisfactorily.

John Hamm lives up to his name and still makes it work, Kevin Spacey actually surprised me, Jamie Foxx is great as always, but it's the kid, Elgort, and the always effervescent Lily James, along with lesser knowns (at least to me) Eiza Gonzales and CJ Jones (I thank the director for actually casting a deaf actor rather than a hearing one playing deaf), and a cameo by Flea as a thug with a fake nose, to name a few, that makes everything click into place perfectly.

BABY DRIVER is a great ride, with enough clever (in the best sense of that word, not the "kill your darlings" sense) details (for those who care, there are several famous folks in small roles, for instance) and unexpected twists to overcompensate for whatever might be predictably contrived about a Hollywood heist flick. Perfect movie escape on a hot summer day or night.

CANADA DAY

There's a lot more than this, but though not hilarious it does make a few good points at the top:

ANOTHER FAVORITE QUOTE

"Money, I could
give a shit.
Fame, forget it.
An authenticity
that rattles
my bones."

—Eileen Myles (from her poem "A Debate With A Glove")

THE THREE POETEERS

Terene Winch, the late Ed Cox and me (wearing Terry's hat) in DC c. 1972

Doug Lang, Terence Winch, and me (wearing Doug's shades) in DC c. 1977

Harry Dean Stanton, Eve Brandstein (she and I talked Harry into writing something for our weekly poetry series Poetry In Motion) in L.A. c. 1990

Aram Saroyan, Terence Winch and me in L.A. c. 1995

Malachy McCourt, me, and the late Daniel Cassidy in SF c. 1998

Simon Pettet, me, and Anabel Lee at my 60th birthday party in The Berkshires 2002

Susan Hayden, Ben Brandstein, and me in NYC earlier this year