Thursday, June 11th, 2009...10:40 am
todd moore | fighting death for the poem
Every time I write something Death sits in the corner and watches. He is the consummate voyeur. Maybe he thinks he’s putting one over on me, but I know he’s there. He sits next to a cascade of empty boxes near my book filled closet. He would chew his nails if he could but in the absence of nails he chews the bone tips of his fingers. I can hear them click. He wants me to listen. This is Death’s music, his aria of stutter.
He knows when I am writing a poem, he can smell it. What happens is that the human body gives off an odor of provocative skin and quick electricity when it’s involved in the creative process. It can’t be helped. When Edward Hopper was painting NIGHTHAWKS Death tried to convince Hopper to put him in the picture. But Hopper resisted, though it made no difference. Death is one of the hats in the painting.
When Edvard Munch was painting THE SCREAM Death wanted Munch to make him the screamer and you can see how well Death succeeded. When Van Gogh painted that series of self portraits on cardboard Death kept trying to crawl beneath Van Gogh’s tortured face and the V man had to keep slapping new layers of paint across bones. He thought it would help, the effort was futile. When Picasso was painting GUERNICA Death got into the painting by becoming the thing that is flying out of the horse’s mouth. This is Death’s job. It’s the kind of work that he can get into.
That last paragraph of THE TRIAL where the two killers are getting ready to murder Joseph K, this is where Death has jumped into the novel. Death had been after Kafka for weeks to put him into the book. The way he does it is through dreams. He comes at you in nightmares and he doesn’t stop until you give in. Or, at least until some arrangement has been made. In Kafka’s case, he allowed death to bifurcate, to become the two killers wearing the same vacant faces. And, in some translations Death takes turns with himself when it comes to plunging the knife into Joseph K’s heart. And, sometimes Death is also the knife and the air around the wound.
Death’s argument for getting himself into books is that the story is nothing without his being in it. It’s like seasoning the meat. But Death didn’t really want to be a major character. He knows that he can’t carry a story all by himself. Instead, he’d rather be someone minor and nameless and more often than not with nothing to say. Death is the black paint in Goya’s nightmare paintings. Death is the hiss the words get when Sylvia Plath reads Daddy. The sound scorches him all the way through and he has to slough off all the burnt parts.
Death will do anything to get into a poem. He bribed Kell Robertson and Charles Bukowski with dream six packs of beer to be part of their poems. He kissed Frank Stanford on the mouth and then frenched him as a bonus for writing Death And The Arkansas River and the taste of Death’s kiss was all chocolate and ashes. He’d give you a blowjob if you wanted it but it would have to be in some sex fantasy nightmare Death wants you to eat. He gave William S. Burroughs a special dream revolver for having written NAKED LUNCH and then letting Death do some of Doctor Benway’s lines. He gave Lorca complete access to the Duende knowing full well that Lorca had to somehow make him a major player, a demon child, a cyanide wind. It was either that or kiss the theory goodbye. And, as for Death, he wasn’t all that sure that he liked the deal afterward because he was so visible in the essay. But he had no choice in the matter. Still, that was okay because Death knew he’d also be one of the bullets that would ultimately finish Lorca off later. It almost made Death laugh to think bang bang, you’re dead.
In THE STRANGER, that scene where Meursault shoots the Arab, Death is the sun. At the end of FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS, Death is the machine gun. In THE GREAT GATSBY when Gatsby is shot and falls into the swimming pool, Death is the black hole in the water. When Judge Holden kills the kid with his bare hands in the outhouse at the end of BLOOD MERIDIAN, Death hides in the shit.
You may think you know where Death is in any given story, poem, or novel, but you don’t. Death is the ultimate trickster, the absolute best shape shifter ever. In MOBY DICK he starts off as one of Queequeg’s tattoos. Then he changes to one of Daggoo’s shadows. Then he turns into St. Elmo’s fire. Then he becomes the rope lashing Ahab to the whale. And, this may happen just that way the first time you read through the book. But if you try reading it again, Death may become a whole new cluster of signs and shapes. Death never inhabits the same metaphor twice.
In a dream Death promised Ed Dorn he’d stay out of GUNSLINGER, then became the Gunslinger’s pair of leather encased hands. Death knows that you can’t create a gunslinger unless he has hands. Death knows he has Dorn where he wants him. Death’s laugh goes up in the smoke.
In The 13th Horse Song of Frank Mitchell Death is the shadow of the prayerstick as it strikes the ground. In Song Of Myself, Death waits under Walt Whitman’s right shoe. In a recent Dennis Gulling poem Death is a piece of lint resting on a sawed off shotgun barrel. In John Yamrus’ poem At The Funeral, Death is the ring missing from the corpse’s hand. In Tony Moffeit’s BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID Death has painted himself all over with red chile.
Death may remain the same thing in a poem or a novel or a story or he may change from object to object. Death likes to skip around. You think you have him and you don’t. Death is a literature of motion, blur, confusion, and flow. Death yearns for the sense of flux in Thomas McGrath’s LETTER TO AN IMAGINARY FRIEND, is almost sick with a longing for dust in THE WASTE LAND. Death is not so much the bridge in Hart Crane’s THE BRIDGE as he is both the bridge’s shadow and the wolf that eats the shadow.
If you asked me where Death was in DILLINGER, I’d have to say everywhere. And, also nowhere that I can be sure of. If I told you, Death was Dillinger’s Thompson, Death would suddenly turn into the dark band on Dillinger’s stetson. If I told you Death was the way Dillinger made the sign of the gun, then Death would have to become Dillinger’s fuck finger. If I said Death was Dillinger’s wooden gun, then Death would have to jump out and become a dust fleck circling the air around the wooden barrel.
Death is a riddle that cannot be stated, a quantum particle that cannot be tracked. Death’s metaphor is a collection of all metaphors and this includes the absence of all metaphors as well. Death is the black hole of poetry. All poetry comes out of that hole and all poetry returns to it. The supreme irony is we fight Death for the poem that we know he will become part of, this is the price of the poem.
some related articles are listed below:
- todd moore | coyote death mask outlaw
- todd moore | dillinger, death, and the high mountain air
- todd moore | the great american poem
- todd moore | machine guns, guernica, and the outlaw poem
- todd moore | the machine gun blood of the poem
- todd moore | the volcanic death song of baby face nelson
- todd moore | all the dark talking to the angel of death
- todd moore | the last good movie I made was a poem
- todd moore | the fevers and sweats of the nightmare poem
- todd moore | love & death & teeth in the blood
- todd moore | death rides the blood
- todd moore | everything changes when dillinger arrives
- todd moore | i want it all and i want it now
- todd moore | night blood, red hands
- todd moore | I work the shattered line
- todd moore | scratching it out street level for the poem
- todd moore | this
- todd moore | dreaming the dream, paying the price
- todd moore | when…
- todd moore | dillinger was
- todd moore | cold fire, molten ice
- todd moore | inventing the nightmare
- todd moore | all the way to the fame
- john dorsey & s.a. griffin | the dead zone trilogy by todd moore
- todd moore | outlaw bonfires and dillinger’s blood
- todd moore | dillinger, outlaws, writing, and murder
- todd moore | mythic blood, psychic movies, outlaw dreams
- todd moore | american metaphors, visions, and nightmares
- todd moore | we cut
- todd moore | leaving a little blood on the floor
- todd moore | that terrible shaking in the blood
- todd moore | the murder and the ecstasy of the everlasting dream
- todd moore | stealing dillinger, becoming an outlaw
- todd moore | dillinger stood…
- todd moore | what are the stakes in american poetry?
- todd moore | the last good reading from the outlaw dark
- todd moore | nightmare splender
- todd moore | billy the kid in the theater of blood
- todd moore | the coyote trickster and the wooden gun
- todd moore | the nightmare of poetry is war
- todd moore | dillinger, the coyote, and the wolf
- todd moore | washed in the blood of the outlaw moon
- todd moore | instructions for reading dead reckoning
- todd moore | what I want to know
- todd moore | the sea, the poem, and the house of all possible myths: the poetry of milner place
- todd moore | blood and fate under mad stars
- todd moore | damage, genius, courage
- todd moore | reading the dark
- todd moore | the exalted scar and the annointed cure
- todd moore | nightmare frenzy
- todd moore | blood calls to blood
- todd moore | reading the movies, watching the poems
- todd moore | rd armstrong | reads
- todd moore | going to meet the outlaw
- todd moore | the nightmare talking
- todd moore | the second
- todd moore | writing poetry, burning the house
- todd moore | the dark country
- todd moore | the blood of america
- todd moore | i write in the blood
- todd moore | the kid
- todd moore | the outlaw poet and those killer eyes
- todd moore | the dillinger convergence: three ways of dreaming the outlaw
- todd moore | the fever of writing
- todd moore | road testing the kid
- todd moore | dillinger and the riddle of the wooden gun
- todd moore | working on my duende
- d.a.levy | suburban monastery death poem
- todd moore | danger beyond danger, where the outlaw lives
- todd moore | the name is dillinger
- todd moore | scorched trinity: dillinger, billie, and machine gun love
- todd moore | dillinger stepped
- todd moore | the sign of the outlaw
- todd moore | hustling for drinks, praying for lines
- todd moore | the treehouse reading
- todd moore | the mystery
- todd moore | writing dillinger in the eye of the hurricane
- todd moore | falling asleep in outlaw country
- todd moore | love, longing, dillinger, disaster
- todd moore | dave roskos, the editor’s editor
- todd moore | just before
- todd moore | I don’t
- todd moore | i’ll play dillinger
- todd moore | fucking
- todd moore | i don’t want
- todd moore | the long way home and the blood on the floor
- todd moore | the blood of the poet
- todd moore | falling in love with danger
- todd moore | the question
- todd moore | the sentences are burning
- todd moore | into the open madness: the poetry of kell robertson
- todd moore | and the gunfight at dodge city
- todd moore | working the outlaw wind
- todd moore | walking around in the blood
- todd moore | taking on bukowski
- todd moore | shadow of the outlaw
- todd moore | the dark side of america
- todd moore | the shattered hemingway sentence
- todd moore | stealing the fire, stealing the shadow
- todd moore | living at the movies with dillinger and depp
- todd moore | chasing jack micheline’s shadow
- todd moore | the nightmare of reading
- todd moore | pure blood primal: the poetry of kell robertson
- todd moore | gimme danger
- todd moore | when dillinger
- todd moore | machine guns, movies, culture, dreams
- todd moore | the old man’s waiting
- todd moore | crudely mistaken for life: the books of wounds
- todd moore | what haunted
- todd moore | the perfect
- todd moore | patrick mckinnon and the drunken shamanic
- todd moore | i love
- todd moore | tasting the blood
- todd moore | dying with dillinger in the corpse is dreaming
- todd moore | outlaw poetry
- todd moore | a conversation with raindog
- todd moore | dillinger posed
- todd moore | gary goude and that crushed rotting dawg
- todd moore | devouring the shadow
- todd moore | the bank…
- todd moore | the bottle
- todd moore | outlaw poetry, psychic damage, the survival of wounds
- todd moore | blind whiskey and the straight razor blues
- todd moore | lisa was…
- todd moore | cindy was
- tony moffeit | a revolution of consciousness: review on dead reckoning by todd moore
- todd moore | the house
- todd moore | writing with your wounds: a reading of the broken and the damned by jason hardung
- todd moore | just
- bill nevin | todd moore, cinematic poet on the outlaw’s trail
- todd moore | peckinpah took…
- todd moore | stories, ashes, and fire
- todd moore | largo slapped
- tony moffeit | scorching the darkness: the channeling of dillinger
- todd moore | how come
- todd moore | lucky
- todd moore | glistening with blood | a bellyfull of anarchy by rob plath
- todd moore | burning the…
- todd moore | 45 auto
- todd moore | dynamite
- todd moore | hemingway
- todd moore | jack wilson
- todd moore | parker shot
- todd moore | las montanas de santa fe: visions of the spirit country
- todd moore | doing shots with ben smith in air à boire
- s.a. griffin | for todd moore’s 70th
- tony moffeit | a man on fire
- todd moore | how to survive the coming night: the poetry of john yamrus
- todd moore | red
- todd moore | right after…
- todd moore | i was
- todd moore | coleman is
- todd moore | they’re coming
- todd moore | burning
- todd moore | reading
- todd moore | tyler’s
- todd moore | outlaw
- tony moffeit | shaking the bones
- todd moore | shotgun blues
- todd moore | donny shot…
- todd moore | geeshie wiley
- todd moore | frito stopped…
- todd moore | black rain
- todd moore | gimme a shotgun
- todd moore | billie licked…
- rd armstrong | todd moore and lummox press
- mera wolf & todd moore | read
- ken greenley | night shift poem
- todd moore & Lawrence welsh | poetry reading
- todd moore | play it & judy christopher
- todd moore | the rat’s blood had glued my hand shut
- bone | poetry by todd moore & rd armstrong
- todd moore | the gold cane, van gogh’s ear, and the gun in the casket: wandering down this crooked road
- todd moore | saturday night desperate, don winter, and the black mitten of poetry
- wolfgang carstens | blood, energy and darkness: a review of dead reckoning
- todd moore | what’s
- todd moore | dancing in the fire with s.a. griffin
- kell robertson | the goofy goddess on the wall
- miriam halliday borkowski | point lobos sea poem for matt’s 42nd birthday san francisco
- eugenia borkowski | untitled poem
- todd moore | gary goude | blood on blood
- todd moore | burning
- todd moore | coming out of…
- todd moore | jerry’s old
- todd moore
- todd moore & dennis gulling | shotgun weather
- lawrence welsh | skull highway
- tony moffeit | spirits
- the dial-a-poem-poets
- wolfgang carstens | todd moore | boom
- tony moffeit | american blues outlaw poetry anarchic dream
- olly bryan | poem for jack micheline (in my room)
- lost? & found!
- miriam halliday borkowski | sea poem for sarah on her 21st birthday and because she just graduated from the american academy of dramatic arts in new york city
- albert huffstickler | la buanderie | laundromat
- tony moffeit | the outlaw revolution
- todd moore | the central avenue rundown jazz radio show
- todd moore & john macker
- wolfgang carstens | for todd moore
- albert huffstickler | la voie de l’art – the way of art














1 Comment
June 11th, 2009 at 10:44 pm
Leave a Reply