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Tucson House Visit No. Two (Samuel Ace)

This is Samuel Ace’s grandmother. She immigrated to the United States from Transylvania in her mid-20’s, not long before the opening of the First World War. Her name is Anna. Sam remembers Anna being a tall woman, while her husband—Sam’s grandfather—was short. They used to fight a lot. This is a still image from a Super-8 film Sam’s aunt took when Sam was young. The film is of a birthday party. Sam is showing me innumerable still images he has taken not only of the birthday party film but of other films, including one called THIS IS MY RAILROAD, of which Sam has taken 733 still photographs:

He takes images of images. Or they take him. It is time spent—an exchange. For example, Sam spent time in Bisbee, Arizona—birthplace of the poet Alice Notley—taking pictures of the objects people had in their homes. They have a life of their own, these objects, and are, in a sense, immortal. In the sense that matters. Here is a picture Sam took of a picture:

I am crouching on the floor beside Sam, who is sitting in a chair scrolling through images on his computer. So I am slightly below the vantage point of the original vantage point, looking up into this woman’s upturned eyes. Her brow is raised. Sam’s partner comes from a long line of antique dealers, so brought Sam into the wondrous world of thrift stores and their feral objects. Immortality reigns within Sam’s gentle witness, certainly. Sam is a photographer and a poet. Things come together.

Sam and I once ate pizza together. He talked about Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, where he spends time. Steam from the springs rising out of the earth. What does it mean when you meet someone and feel like you’ve met them before? Maybe you actually HAVE met them before, but forgot. Or maybe that person counts among their life-giving organs a kind of timeless and transcendent heart between hearts that is seamless when shared, and always shared. Sam is reading tonight for The Dictionary Project, coordinated by Tucson writer Lisa O’Neill. Here is Sam’s contribution to the project, including also his images. And here are Sam’s father and mother, from the same Super-8-captured birthday party, as seen again by Sam, many years later, at precisely the moments most intuitively stilled—a life, lives, differentiated and immortal:

April 28th Letter No. One (Hart Crane, 1931)

HART CRANE to Katherine Anne Porter and Eugene Pressly, April 28, 1931


Tucson House Visit No. One (Joshua Marie Wilkinson)

This music is beautiful in the morning. I’m at Joshua Marie Wilkinson’s house. Damien Jurado’s record with Richard Swift called MARAQOPA is spinning on the player. It is good and hot in the desert. Josh is working on a book called A SONG CALLED ‘KANSAS CITY’ BY THE SINGER DAMIEN JURADO. It is a book of poetry. Is it a secret? Am I supposed to be saying this? Josh is a poet. He is eating strawberries from a plastic container. He has an orange tree in his backyard. The oranges have thick peels and their insides are woven with cotton.

Josh has printed out manuscript pages of A SONG CALLED… and is having at it with a pair of scissors. There’s a pile of white selvage on the floor of his study. I often wonder how Josh’s mind works, though some evidence of an answer can be found within his many volumes of poetry, edited anthologies, and THE VOLTA, which he generously conducts, with a number of brilliant people present for it. He also, with poet Noah Eli Gordon, makes books under the name Letter Machine. The paper is now flying: strawberry leaves and gleaming white space. 

The first thing you see when you walk into Josh’s house is this print of a painting by Paul Klee. Josh’s poems might be found not only within the segments of the hunter and the hunted, but in what conveys them both along the lines of their continuously unfolding destinies. 

Maybe Josh looked like this when he was young. The boy, that is. The boy’s name is Deacon. He’s Josh’s nephew. The dog to the right is Bella. Bella is Josh’s dog. I first met Josh in Austin, Texas, in 2006, at a Cuban restaurant. I invited him to read in Missoula, Montana, where I was then living. He read in an old whorehouse. His father, who came to the reading, recognized the reading space as that of an old whorehouse. If only it had been still. Josh’s father had been a bartender there a lifetime before. Egon Schiele’s Nudo seduto con calze viola (1910) hangs over Josh’s bed.

This woman’s eye! Her knees! Her nipple! And then I notice the poem by Paul Celan on the wall, with an etching by his wife, Gisele Lestrange. The poem is a translation by John Felstiner: “THREADSUNS / over the grayblack wastness. / A tree— / high thought / strike the light-tone: there are / still songs to sing beyond / humankind.” We don’t know why we do what we do, though maybe we’re in some company. Josh is up now and changing the record.

It is Good and Hot in the Desert: House Visits & Letters, by Brandon Shimoda

My mother’s name is Karen. My father’s name is Midori. My grandfathers’ names are Midori and Paul. My grandmothers’ names are Jayne and June. My great-grandmothers’ names are Asano, Hazel, Golda and Kawaki. My great-grandfathers’ names are Geiichi, Masachichi, Owen and Paul. My sister’s name is Kelly. My name is Brandon—Shimoda. I am today’s featured poetry tumblrer. Tomorrow and yesterday I feature also visions at

No Internet at the house, so throughout today I’ll be borrowing Internet from a few poet and artist friends of mine (Samuel Ace, Laynie Browne, Dot Devota, Annie Guthrie, Brent Hendricks, Kristi Maxwell, Kristen Nelson, Michael Rerick, Noah Saterstrom and Joshua Marie Wilkinson) in their homes around Tucson, Arizona, where we all live, and writing about them, showing you around a few corners of their homes and their lives. In between I’ll be posting excerpts from letters written by poets on April 28th back through time. Let’s go and hear happen what you and I see …

Lydia Mendoza, queen of tejano

the death of script

I can’t go kicking this rusty blade no further

we can all name ourselves smurves

when the terrors of modernity seem quaint

plash of water

monumental tree trail

tripple faggot

only god xemself

short buff gay

agog in 8 ft waves

of totally tubular efflorescence

remembers those empassioned tweets

on the theme of cursive handwriting

don’t kiss me, I’m in training (Claude Cahun)

don’t kiss me, I’m in training (Claude Cahun)

Akilah Oliver, with jellyfish.  Reading at Parachute: The Coney Island Performance Festival