’21 – ’22 ~


new/recent articles, poetry book reviews, poems; published just this past two years, in somewhat chronological order (and the last furthest below here, ‘Eratio’, actually published Dec. ’20 and I had neglected to post a link to it here :

my poem SOUSVEILLANCE or The Springfield Sarah Jessica Parker Disaster in the Heavy Feather Review’s “Side A” feature page, includes audio of me reading it, with an accompanying experimental film: https://heavyfeatherreview.org/2022/08/24/sousveillance/

review of BED by Elizabeth Metzger: https://heavyfeatherreview.org/2022/03/29/bed/

review of WITH by JP Garcia: https://compulsivereader.com/2022/03/01/a-review-of-with-by-kenning-jp-garcia/

*slight confusion in this ^article, I confuse the the terms ‘latter’ and ‘former’…The terms former and latter are words used to distinguish between two things. Former directs us to the first of these two things, and latter directs us to the second (or last) of them. I have a sentence where I talk about Ptolemy and Copernicus. I refer to Ptolemy as the former (because I’m thinking of terms of his existence in historical time, before Copernicus) but that is actually a gramatically incorrect usage…editor didn’t catch it, not gonna bother them now…in the sentence in my review it should say ‘latter’ where it currently says ‘former.’ Hah! It was Ptolemy who believed in Earth-centered astronomy.

review of Brian Kim Stefan’s new trans. of Arthur Rimbaud’s poetry, published by Kenning Editions: https://www.tupeloquarterly.com/poetry/a-review-of-arthur-rimbauds-festivals-of-patience-the-verse-poems-translated-by-brian-kim-stefans/

review of Music for Exile by Nehassaiu de Gannes: https://www.thelitpub.com/blog/book-review-music-for-exile-nehassaiu-degannes

review of the experimental QUEENZENGLISH.MP3, a poetry | philosophy | performativity anthology edited by Kyoo Lee, from Roof Books: https://heavyfeatherreview.org/2021/06/08/queenzenglish/

my poetry in Eratio Postmodern Poetry magazine online, ed. Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino: http://eratiopostmodernpoetry.com/Tripp.html

Favorite New Works Cited in 2020:

          Books, Poetry, Literature, Politics/Philosophy   :

Q: I asked: How do you read this work aloud if you do? Or how should the reader?

A: Tenaya Nasser-Frederick: “…about how Lavender Cats opens, [my friend] said ‘surface interference’. I like that for the sense of constant variation it imbues on the page. In an ideal sense the text works kinda like a setup to be interpreted by a body, so that the event of the text occurs in its being read, in that activity (not its composition). I was thinking about musicians using contact mics in their setups. The surface interference comes through in how the reader chooses to view or read the letters of the text, in however they want to slur or smooth through it, skip it or get close to it and all the errata is only to make the reader’s role as mediator more explicit. If I were just writing for poets I wouldn’t have done any of that, but I think I was more immediately surrounded by everyone else, who I hoped would feel less alienated if I could at least demonstrate that I had no idea what I was doing in the poetry any more than they did.”

”                 zombie Kamala

gives a walking tour to a resurrected Obama, who has died suddenly a week ago. Mauve and grey shine in his cheeks. He cannot smile anymore, and the people they pass by weep because he cannot smile. But Kamala is reanimated. She parts the crowd like Moses did the sea, so the people cheer for Kamala but weep for Obama. She lost her hands in Iran due to marijuana-related offenses but Mike Pompeo donates his hands to the reanimation of her corpse. The hands have not taken and are swollen to three times their normal size, just huge. She points with long creamy fingers. Her hair is pinned up, and it shows off her long slender neck and jiggly throat. She is nakedly a device in my narrative but I am trying to hear. Young and so rehearsed, her preparedness showing like a tag poking out a collar: “—supreme court is a beautiful monument to a government founded on the highest of human ideals. The beauty of the architecture and spirit of design left a lasting impression the straight lines in the building represent the immutable nature of truth, while the curved glass and walls were built to represent the fluid nature of finding justice. From hearing her talk like this, I’m turned on, Obama’s turned on, everybody’s horny. But Obama’d stopped. He groans, trying to force open his lip. Kamala turns and flashes him a look of warning, which does not dissolve, it just stays on her face and becomes a moment. Obama’s groan continues as rich and sonorous as his voice ever was. And finally he speaks: “the ‘straight lines’ of truth have bent reality, morality and history right out of shape.” The people have stopped weeping, but do not seem shocked. They always knew it about him. A blackhooded monk excusing himself through the crowd takes Obama by the elbow. I think it is Kerry because I can only see his chin. They exit amidst confusion and I follow under cover of authorship. He leads Obama to the resting place whence he emerged, but the former President does not want to return to his former state. John Kerry offers to go in his stead and enters the hole, rolling the stone back over himself. Meanwhile, the crowd has arrived, pulling Kamala, tied at the torso to the nozzle of a centurion tank situated upon a tinder-fire pagoda on wheels. Mike Pompeo’s hands, having unstitched themselves, are dancing in a birdcage dancing off a string from the mouth of the tank, so while Kamala freely flails her stumps she cannot untie her torso or legs from the nozzle. The crowd props a compliant Obama on the pyre on top of Kamala. She twists a glance at him with very raised eyebrows. Looking over her eyebrows, he can see antiquity in the many furrows of her forehead, ancient Palestine and the ebb and flow of empires. He turns away his face from her and says to no one, though perhaps looking for me:

I’m not living on a distant planet, nor in some distant future. I tried to consider the external reasons for war: economics, religion, ideologies, etc. But I couldn’t even remain with these thoughts. I had to return to the reality of the war. History lacks perspective; nothing comes early or late. This is the way it is: The world loves small countries, fighting for their existence against big, powerful, nations. But they don’t want them to win. Such a victory would go against the grain of history. It would break the accepted law of nature, that the gazelle can never get away from the lion. The world doesn’t like it when you try to break the laws of history. That is what happened to Finland, for instance. And when the Jewish people are trying to go against the laws of history — it is even worse. The idea of God is an anti-historical concept; the Bible is full of stories about the weak who won in the end, of the last and the smallest who became king. This is also the original conception of Christianity, of Jesus.

It is easy to be a true prophet. The true prophets were the ones who followed their pessimistic-realistic instincts and knew that the tranquility of the present could not last, that things were going to get worse. And when they prophecised good events, they were always located in the unreal, end-of-the-world, future. It was easy, the enemy was always looming concrete in the background, and outside of the case of Isaiah and Sanhareb, the enemy was always willing to prove the truth of the prophecies.”

Obama breaks off and turns his face upward. In a bloodcurdling way, he screams, “I’m reaching the present.” His head sinks back down and he sighs. He tells me that a poet should remain in reality in his images and descriptions, his parables and embellishments. “Anyone who stops writing reality and using it (and there are many realities) will turn his writing into mechanized print.” He goes on to tell me an anecdote I didn’t understand about an Arab poet he once knew, a good poet, he says, and the wise criticism he, Obama, had given him, about why his poetry wasn’t that good at all. I start to feel that Obama lays it on kinda thick, patting himself on the back too much. It’s getting late and the crowd is doing many circles of a Debka in layers, each circle alternating direction. I guide my baby boy body by bird’s-eye-view through a teeming mandala, getting out under people’s locked arms while dirty feet swing at my face. Kamala interjects into Obama’s speech—“During the war we lost a lot of machines and a lot of spiritual machines.” She watches him not give her any room to speak then starts to chant—END OF QUOTE! END OF SPEECH! Much of the crowd joins her chant. I almost run into the pit. The orchestra of Israel is playing Somebody I Used To Know. The next day the atmosphere in Jerusalem is very changed, but I’m not sure why. I see a paper while I sit at a cafe. It says that John Kerry and Ban Ki Moon had rolled back the stone in ambush and peppered the crowd with automatic rifles. I see Obama with an inverted skull pass by the cafe, a child in a flowing blue dress over flowing blue pants by his side. His skull has condensed into a brilliant marble ball over which his cloudy brains and tendons stretch like a kite.”

                                                                          — Tenaya Nasser-Frederick

  • Terrence Arjoon, 36 Dreams, 1080 Press

  • Galina Rymbu, Life In Space, Russian trans. by Joan Brooks, Ugly Duckling Presse, Brooklyn

                                    & !

  • Galina Rymbu, Eugene Ostashevsky and Ainsley Morse, ed.(s): F Letter: New Russian Feminist Poetry, Isolarii. Anthology. Includes Lida Yusupova, Daria Serenko, Lolita Agamalova, Elena Kostyleva, Egana Djabbarova, Oksana Vasyakina, Elena Georgievskaya, Stanislava Mogileva, Ekaterina Simonova, Nastya Denisova, Yulia Podlubnova

NOTE: the anthology is the gathering place and evidence locker of many years of different authors working in a variety of forms.

*literal, in some cases, poetics or documentary

or if the art of them (some of these poems) is that of the art of life itself, how is it more political, the gesture, in this context, Russia, it hits differently, is symbolic, it may be in this case partially a subversive affirmation of the persistence of the globalizing surveillance state and big data’s trying to hold us all hostage? open the anthology, some might say abrasive for 100 pages, some charisma is always lost in translation, a utilitarian compromise, However, this is a real anthology, and there is a multiplicity of voices, other different voices crop up, with a different kind of tone that is more sparse and abstract

a snapshot in time, panorama grey

it would be unfair to cast any critical judgement regarding the poetics exhibited here by any particular single author in this collection,

because an anthology does not allow for any one poet to have much breadth, but regardless of authorship there are always certain dominant styles

that other bunch of poets whose names can also be found in the index.

in the introduction: it is written about, the political coercion and violence of Russia and a “prominent feminist trend of poetics of traumatic sincerity”

As the intro also in a sense begins to allude, lucky spoiled privileged us, USA creative writing programs are as Artaud might say essentially like pig farms, where students are bred for slaughter. Or still some others may be lucky enough to become one of the slaughterers themselves, provided that they agree to forfeit their true dignity, they must run the rat race

E. Ostashevsky: “Please learn to read in two foreign languages at least”

American poetry, bloated, greedy, self-serving, tends towards a wasteland and would be officially pronounced D.O.A without the primal, vital influx from the South/Central Americas and therefore by extension the whole Spanish world, and french to the north somewhat, and how certain coastal metropoli have truck with the rest of the world too, including Russia.

what is actually radical is the publishing effort and international collaboration form that books like these take.

the style can be a response to something else too. to a certain almost ecological concern perhaps regarding the overwhelming amount of content that already exists, a thing may seem to have a value because it is unique because it comes from one person’s subjectivity

but the idea of inevitable overcrowding

poets therefore implicitly called upon to justify more than ever, that…it, and they, should exist,

Suggesting there is too much poetry already, which may be true, endows the poet with something like original sin.

However, might there still be some ideal alignment of circumstances of subject, medium, technique, location, economy, “ecosystem” etc. that brings about a truly meaningful work in such a debased form, proving that in the end sinful forms of writing (or filmmaking.doc) are indeed the only form that this particular content should take?

the “cancel culture” some face is actually real, it is the authoritarian state where real cancellations happens, lives cancelled right out of reality

“based on a true story”

and alternatively as if some kind of autarky of american poetics is sustainable, thinks the MFA world.

*For words, nothing left but skeletons /

Now every day is halloween

“Just the same bourgeois property logic”

“it will be your story, in my text…”

like music in supermarkets or casinos: whatever speeds things along so the house always wins, nothing usually comes back to reinforce the community out of which the poems probably originated in most cases

  • Gabriel Kruis, Acid Virga, Archway Editions, Brooklyn

NOTE: I want to say more about this one and those to follow, but, also, a lot has already been said! And WordPress crashed, losing much of my shit. This book has an Xmas-tree’s-worth of blurbs from many remarkable poets on its’ back cover.

An excerpt from the book immediately below here, and some press/etceteras (not my words) regarding Acid Virga:

in el mal pais,
leaned out on mucinex,
mixing dexy cocktails
in the haloed pharmacy
of the car…”      – G.K.

‘An unusually assured debut, Acid Virga is a memoir in verse cutting between a vivid Southwest upbringing and modern O’Hara hustle in New York City, deeply and seriously reckoning with the psychedelic heritage of religion and the psychological clarity of chemical consciousness. It is both thrillingly propulsive and dense enough to read again and again, always offering up something new. Language is boundlessly specific, evocative of states internal and external, reading at times like a melancholy memoir stuck between stations, an epic poem or even a philosophical tract, always a true and important record of our American lives as lived now—an endless and reliable ticker tape of the soul.’  – Anon

  • Andrew Durbin, Skyland, Nightboat Books, Brooklyn

NOTE: The raw fact of Andrew’s writer-ly composing these short novels effectively two years in a row now (or, year after year anyway; am I forgetting? was it two/three years ago: MacArthur Park?) is compelling/remarkable in itself…here’s hoping for ten more of them. Maybe it could be said they verge on a new millennial kind of ‘automatic writing’ in prose? It was a quick read, as it was maybe also a quick write, for Andrew? Speed does seem to be one of this book’s qualities, something Italo Calvino might admire about it if he were still among its potential readership. The climax of this novel essentially is a dual one: involving the “discovery” of an obscure painting and the experience of racist policing in modern-day Greece. Or anyway that’s how I read it.

  • Paul Legault, The Tower, Coach House Books, Toronto

Canadian. Makes use of appropriation, particularly, and a sense of re-writing or a writing into, William Butler Yeats. I had a lot on this one that got erased thanks to WordPress.

  • Jean Genet, The Criminal Child: Selected Essays, trans. from French by Charlotte Mandell and Jeffrey Zuckerman, New York Review Books, New York

Anything this guy wrote is worth reading…some of these essays had been hard to find previously in English translation. I’m also a fan of his films.

  • Mathias Svalina & Jon Pack, The Depression, The Accomplices: A Civil Coping Mechanisms Book

I dunno from what state this book came, though it felt like a welcome change from the NYC-centric stuff I’m usuallly inundated with (not that I’m complaining about it, either). Prose and photographs. #greyscale. Harry Callahan called, Lee Freidlander…I dunno why more poetry book don’t incorporate more photography. I used to be a very obsessive darkroom printer/developer old-fashioned-film-photography kinda guy, so this one resonated with me on that level.

  • Ish Klein, The New Sun Time, Canarium Books, New York City, Marfa, Atlanta

Nice review of this one here: https://hkrbooks.com/2020/05/31/the-new-sun-time/

  • Lonely Christopher, In A January Would, Roof Books, New York

Link to my review of Lonely Christopher’s previous poetry collection RESIGNATION from Roof, at Hyperallergic, via the Poetry Foundation’s “Harriet” site: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2019/02/ben-tripp-reviews-lonely-christophers-resignation

Transcription of some notes I scribbled about this new one just this past March/April:

p. 61 Christmas Day   [must’ve been my favorite poem?]

“…Regions of the dead and newly birthed

petting out portions in retribution for some long abandoned slight

saying finally there is nothing to confront, just me.


I’ve struck my pen against a rock

held a baby and, in awe of his ponderous face, been gentle.

Let this city carve hollows of damage through our coursing souls

let the maniacs keep their historic appointments.”

Not (as I first thought) apartments, like as with the title, you might think, world. The poem becomes more personal? While it is also more abstract or allegorical…but who are these pronouns?

a trove of LC’s

dense offerings

Some are more terse than

     others, all contain

               lurid details

     presumably autobiographical

there exists a certain virtuosity

within these works,

a sense of casualness

         and urgency,

          and industry

the industry of the poet

  • Sparrow, Abraham: A Novel, Autonomedia, Brooklyn

If you don’t know Sparrow, please start with one of the books he wrote about running for president, they are quite rare but worth the journey. This Wikipedia entry is useful too:


but, suffice it to say that the 2001 Soft Skull book is a real gem. I don’t recall how I came to possess a copy a few years back, but I had one, read it, loved it, lent it to a friend, and the rest is history (for my owning the book, I mean) I think the book is in Europe now under lockdown

Inpatient Press also is on-the-case: https://inpatientpress.bigcartel.com/product/on-certain-nights-everyone-in-the-usa-has-the-same-dream-by-sparrow

So in this novel (I had to post a picture so you would know it is about Lincoln) Sparrow has effectively transcribed the diary of a different person who was obsessed with the former president, FYI!

Nature, appropriation, conceptualisms, family/raising children, Upstate NY, more nature, history of Abe Lincoln, diary writing.

  • McKenzie Wark, Sensoria: Thinkers for the Twenty-First Century, Verso Books, London, New York

Another new essay of Wark’s I liked recently, on the concept of literary suffering: https://www.thewhitereview.org/feature/girls-like-us/

I reviewed a different recent books of Wark’s: Capital is Dead […] https://hyperallergic.com/535383/capital-is-dead-is-this-something-worse-by-mckenzie-wark/

  • John Nichols, The Fight for the Soul of the Democratic Party: The Enduring Legacy of Henry Wallace’s Anti-Fascist, Anti-Racist Politics, Verso Books

NOTE: Not actually mentioned in the above book, but, according to James Laughlin, former publisher of New Directions, Henry Wallace was one of the only (or perhaps the one and only) high-level American politician(s) who actually met with Ezra Pound stateside during WWII circa 1939. This would have been presumably the poet’s last visit to America from Italy before his incarceration for treason. It was only a brief meeting, as the poet was aspiring to his peak madness & obsession with economic theory. He, Pound, of course, made the journey hoping to speak with President Roosevelt (Wallace = vice-prez) but was most likely swiftly denied that opportunity.

In this documentary below, which has been made available on YouTube in its entirety, you can hear Laughlin speak about it. They also interview one of the American soldiers who worked as a prison guard in Pisa during Pound’s imprisonment.

Laughlin: “I believe [Pound] did get to see Henry Wallace, for about ten minutes…but it was just ‘You’re a great man, nice to meet you, goodbye.’ Pound really thought his ideas on economics should be heard. He left despondent, hurt…that people would not take him seriously as an economic and political thinker.”

Laughlin: 33:37 minute mark https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1yCgRANLzQ0]

Mr. Transylvania Interview:

Mr. Transylvania plays Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. NYC tonite at 8pm w/Tredici Bacci, Godcaster, Eyes of Love and Starla Online. 

chris shields.jpg

Exchanging some words with/posing some questions to Mr. Transylvania (a.k.a Chris Shields, pictured above) earlier this month proved not only entertaining but enlightening:



There can be a sort of forbidding, cultish, almost paranoid self-seriousness to a lot of noise, latter-day electronic and/or experimental music. Mr. Transylvania definitely is like a refreshing tonic in the midst of all that. I bring up those genres just because those are the kinds of acts I’ve seen you play with. I don’t want to give too much away for anyone who hasn’t seen Mr. T yet/before, and I don’t know how this project has also maybe been developing and changing recently too. It is a noise project though…to a certain degree at least, wouldn’t you say? It has a deranged pop sensibility to it as well. It’s lyrical.


Chris Shields: I have always taken “noise” to mean a sort of catch all for types of music that don’t really fit other places. That’s what I consider what I do. Something that doesn’t fit very well anywhere else.

When I first started doing Mr. Transylvania those were the people I knew. I had friends in the noise scene and more and more my interests and the music I was listening to was going that way. I always had a little bit more of an interest in rock n roll and pop (particularly 50s/60s pop and garage rock) than some other people, and I think that influenced me a lot. I liked the extremity of noise and the freedom it offered. That somehow collided with my love of punk and rock n roll, and Mr. Transylvania was the result.

Ultimately, the ethos of noise and the kind of diy aspect of it seemed like the right fit. Shows could be anything, they could happen anywhere, and with any equipment or circumstances. I liked that a lot and it definitely helped form my ideas about music and what I could do.




Let’s take a closer look at some of your lyrics:


burnin’ in hell (x3)

what the fuck is that

god-damn smell now

In a video I saw of a recent performance of this song, you were on the basement floor of the venue performing in a puddle of really dirty-looking water that just happened to be there that night. So with that in mind, my interpretation of the song is that there is this character happening, who may or may not be the actual singer, but who is definitely going through some intense stuff: wondering perhaps about some life choices they’ve made that has lead them to this point where they’re suddenly freaking out, burning in hell. But at the same time, this burning is almost desirable…it’s badass, it’s provocative, maybe even fashionable. And what you’re smelling may actually be your own flesh burning—because you’re in hell—so you roll around in the dirty water on the basement floor because you’re trying to put yourself out.

Are a lot of your songs improvised?


None of my songs are strictly improvised. They are kind of ready made structures that facilitate the performance, the humor, and the physicality. Everything in between the songs is improvised and I try to be really open to what’s around me and who’s around me. That’s what makes it interesting and unique every time (hopefully). The songs give it all some kind of structure though. The physicality is improvised for sure, as well as the utilization of whatever materials are around. I like the performance to really be present in the space and present with whoever’s there.

As far as Farted in Heaven particularly as a song. Yeah, I’ve definitely had my ups and downs like anyone. That definitely factors into my songs. Being extreme and kind of hopefully crass but clever in my songs is my form of honesty. Life is kind of dumb sometimes and what’s profound shouldn’t really be mandated in my opinion. So I like to see what else is kind of meaningful, or maybe, could be. Also, it’s good for me, or at least natural for me, to make fun of the more difficult things in life. Just the way I am. I think most people are that way to some extent. Hopefully when I write a song, the melody and the lyrics work as an activator for the performance, so it has to really resonate with me on some level and allow the honesty to flow. It also has to be somewhat simple.

As far as rolling around in dirty water. I like to use whatever is in the space. I don’t want to ignore the obvious. I want the performance to be direct. The artifice that performer and audience agree upon is kind of silly to me. So if there’s water or like a cake or whatever, I want to acknowledge it. I’m also a huge fan of Jackie Chan, Jerry Lewis, and Buster Keaton, and their physicality and how they work with spaces and objects is a big influence. Also, if there’s water there, somebody needs to go in it–otherwise, what makes one show different from another. Let’s celebrate that there is a huge puddle here. Rolling around in water is not gonna kill me and it’ll make it memorable for other people. It also augments the performance and the songs, which, like I said, stay the same.



I saw Mr. Transylvania IRL the first time five years ago at a small show at a “D.I.Y.” venue that I’m pretty sure no longer exists. This was one of the more obscure places of its kind, while still being more than just someone’s living room. I don’t think there were more than ten people in the audience, an off-night. Nevertheless, there were a couple of local artists playing who I already knew as some of my favorites in New York; one solo project and one two-person band. Then, totally out of nowhere, your project appeared, not only holding it down/holding your own, as they say, but I actually left feeling like Mr. Transylvania was the most impressive overall, even when seen alongside my known favorites…for the sheer resourcefulness of it, the bizarre while also non-pretentious, minimalism…definitely a “stripped-down” aesthetic, and lest we forget the noise aesthetic somewhere deep in there too. It was dialed up to 11. And unlike the other projects that night, too, with Mr. Transylvania the words were actually audible.


I definitely appreciate it. That’s it basically. My attitude is kind of like “why not?” If I can do this, which is somewhere between nothing and something, then anyone can do anything. I like that opening up of things. It’s also just me, the way I am. It’s changed as a project over time, but it’s me. I’m my instrument and I change and hopefully become more capable and better at “playing” my voice and body and the space. But yes, the idea is super simple and hopefully potent because of that. I want to really change the feeling in the room and get people excited, but I also want to excite myself and see if I can get somewhere. Sometimes I can’t. I’ve definitely sucked some nights. But other times, it gets me beyond thinking. That’s when it has been good in the past. I think people feel that energy and it offers something different.

I like noise. I don’t listen to as much these days. But I have felt that it can get fairly predictable and rote. I like to be an alternative to that, to be like “but what about this?” Also, it’s nice to add some humor into a show.

The words being discernible is important for me. There seems to be an aversion to language and coherence in its traditional sense in noise. I think that’s great but there is also room for words. Words as a choice make me vulnerable. Once you state something, it’s stated, there’s less wiggle room to change it later. I like that. I think it’s important for me to be direct, because then people know what I’m about as a performer. There’s no risk of them “not getting it” which I think is an unfortunate side effect of some experimental music. I’m like, “No, that’s it, you got it. It’s that simple. It can just be that.”


Wetware at the Wallet '16.jpg

Wetware pictured above at The Wallet, early ’16



How about some of the weirder places you’ve played at? Tours you’ve done? Other artists you’ve played with? Did you see that article recently about all the NYC D.I.Y. venues that have come and gone this past decade? Do you ever feel like…good riddance to some of them? An artist I follow on Twitter joked once that they want to organize shows where it’s free for the audience to enter, but then if they want to leave before all the sets are over they have to pay $10.


I’ve been lucky to play with so many great people. Jeez, it’s hard. It may be surprising but I’ve been doing Mr. Transylvania for like maybe almost 13-14 years. When I lived in Florida it was the ramshackle shows I loved. In Tampa, I was lucky to be part of something called Bloodfest. I believe it was organized by Cephia’s Treat records and they were generator shows that happened pretty much wherever they could do them. The performers would perform covered in fake blood in parking lots and under bridges, etc… Those were great.

I loved playing Death By Audio. The size of the space was always so fun to play with. I got to play one of their last shows and that was really meaningful. Also Port d’Or because there were just like cinder blocks lying around and I liked messing around with them. Great people there and some of my first New York shows.

I was honored to play with Arto Lindsay. That was big for me. He was so nice and asked me up on stage with him during his set.

I played great shows in Boston at places like Gay Gardens and Smokey Bear Cave. I loved playing Mark Johnson’s Raw Meet fests there. In Orlando, Uncle Lou’s was my homebase and we had a great scene there with A LOT of freaky stuff.

I played naked on top of a video store once. In a shower. On a staircase. In a bed. In a bathroom. It’s like Green Eggs and Ham with me. Would I could I with fox? Would I could I in a box? Yes, I can.

Notable bands and people I came up with are What’s Yr Damage? Skeleton Warrior, Triscults, Necros of the Gods and particularly the great Mark Johnson, who was a huge supporter of mine and really got me plugged in when I moved up north. Also, playing with Guerilla Toss was great. Peter put out my 7 inch and super grateful for that. Recently, my main cohort is David Drucker from Painted Faces, a great guy and a great act. We do a duo called Shecky together and a trio called Canyon River Blues with Danny Fernandez (I’m also in Alien Trilogy with him). I’m doing some shows with the great Tredici Bacci soon, and Simon Hanes is a big supporter and really helps me out.

Also, my bandmates Brian Sullivan and Patrick Cole from United Waters are big supporters. Eric Carden (Alien Trilogy) had been a big supporter as well. My girlfriend Sarah Fensom is very supportive and critical, which helps enormously. It has made life wonderful being with someone who “gets it”. Friend and filmmaker, Lindsay Denniberg, has also helped me. She put me in a couple movies doing my thing (Video Diary of a Lost Girl).

As far as venues I won’t miss…hmmm. I’ve been lucky that I don’t play super conventional places so I’ve really enjoyed most places and people. I don’t like coffee shop settings. I feel uncomfortable “going off” there, so to speak. People are just trying to chill out. I’m not trying to be antagonistic (maybe when I was younger) so I don’t want to force my yelling and goofing off onto people who didn’t sign up for it.

Oh, The Glove was great and Big Snow Buffalo Lodge. Both great places to play.

I like Flowers for All Occasions. I had a terrible show there because of ME. But now I’ve had two great shows there. But that was the coffee shop thing. I felt uncomfortable and I let it get to me. I felt I was bothering people. I’m always nervous. Everytime. I try to perform from within that nervousness, rather than getting past it. But feeling like you’re bothering people who didn’t sign up for something is different. Feels a little too egocentric for me. I’m already walking that line enough with what I do.



Last thing I wanna say: something else I like about Mr. T is that it is decidedly NOT materialistic. I mean, it doesn’t get anymore non-materialistic, really…so it’s kind of like your songs are all protest songs, in a way, crazy as that may sound! This is maybe just my pet peeve/problem I have. A lot of artists seem to just be the sum of their gear, which becomes ironic…they’re experimental consumers. Maybe I should stop there before I go too far out on a limb. I mean, I’m guilty of it too, and I’m sure you own an assortment of classic instruments and then fun electronics and software and everything. No one is all that zen. Anyway, I feel like this is maybe an interesting talking point to end on…your thoughts?


I definitely agree with the non-materialist slant. I don’t ever want to be about gear. I think using what’s around is more what I’m about. It yields more interesting results for me. If it’s about gear, it’s about money. I don’t even really want to take money for playing (I have a couple times, one time being one of the last Death By Audio shows). I think the more you can discard the assumptions about music and how and where music happens, I think that’s important. But yes, I play drums but I don’t even want a nice set of drums. It’s more impressive when someone can do something interesting and meaningful with almost nothing. I’m hoping to do something like that. Once you need too much to do your thing, it creates reasons not to do it. Also, I think you start getting boxed in by gear. People start to sound the same. I like when people really take away elements. There’s that Coltrane quote about playing a shoe string, like as long as it’s sincere. I like that a lot. I think there’s an unfounded assumption about what somebody needs to make music. I really don’t think you need anything. Just your imagination really.


Mr. Transylvania in-action at Bohemian Grove, October of last year. 

Capital is Dead

capital is dead cover.jpg


from my review:

“…a chapter entitled: ‘A Time Machine Theory of History’ begins with Wark imagining what it would be like to travel back to mid-1970s China and the Soviet Union and explain to people what exactly is going on in the 21st century. The Chinese might be pleasantly surprised when you tell them that by the second decade of the new century, their Communist Party has gained more or less supreme influence over the global economy, applauding your predictions while remaining somewhat skeptical of them.

In Russia, you might have the pleasure of speaking with a rather dour-faced, ambitious young man named Vladimir Putin, who has just joined the KGB in 1975. Like many of the Communist ideologues in his country during that period, he is trying to remain optimistic, and lying through his teeth: everything is going great here! How dare you speculate that it will all be over for us by the start of 1990s!

Wark then writes, ‘If you took the time machine back to the United States in the mid-seventies, you might be the one who is confused.'”



The Immaterials



Wardwell started in the note price breaking business with a small office at No. 64 South Third Stratum, where he very soon had the pleasure of discovering that his former excellent business connections remembered him. He would go to one house, where he suspected ready lucre might be desirable, and offer to negotiate their notes or any paper they might issue bearing six per cent. interest for a commission and then he would sell the paper for a small commission to some one who would welcome a secure investment. Sometimes his papa, sometimes other people, helped him with suggestions as to when and how. Between the two ends he might make four and five per cent. on the total transaction. In the first year he cleared six thousand dollars over and above all expenses. That wasn’t much, but he was augmenting it in another way which he believed would bring great profit in the future.

Before the first stratum-car line, which was a shambling affair, had been laid on Front Stratum, the stratums of Caledonia had been crowded with hundreds of springless omnibuses rattling over rough, hard, cobblestones. Now, thanks to the idea of Bob Hindering, in New County, the double rail track idea had come, and besides the line on Fifth and Sixth Stratums (the cars running out one stratum and back on another) which had paid splendidly from the start, there were many other lines proposed or under way. The county was as eager to see stratum-cars replace omnibuses as it was to see railroads replace canals. There was opposition, of course. There always is in such cases. The cry of probable monopoly was raised. Disgruntled and defeated omnibus owners and drivers groaned aloud.

Wardwell had implicit faith in the future of the stratum railway. In support of this belief he risked all he could spare on new issues of stock shares in new consortiums. He wanted to be on the inside wherever possible, always, though this was a little difficult in the matter of the stratum-railways, he having been so young when they started and not having yet arranged his coffers managing connections to make them count for much. The Fifth and Sixth Stratum line, which had been but recently started, was paying six hundred dollars a day. A project for a West Caledonia line (Walnut and Chestnut) was on foot, as were lines to occupy Second and Third Stratums, Race and Vine, Spruce and Pine, Green and Zither, Tenth and Eleventh, and so forth. They were engineered and backed by some powerful capitalists who had influence with the State legislature and could, in spite of great public protest, obtain franchises. Charges of corruption were in the air. It was argued that the stratums were valuable, and that the consortiums should pay a road tax of a thousand dollars a mile. Somehow, however, these splendid grants were gotten through, and the public, hearing of the Fifth and Sixth Stratum line profits, was eager to invest. Wardwell was one of these, and when the Second and Third Stratum line was engineered, he invested in that and in the Walnut and Chestnut Stratum line also. He began to have vague dreams of controlling a line himself some day, but as yet he did not see exactly how it was to be done, since his business was far from being a bonanza.

In the midst of this early work he married Mrs. Trapper. There was no vast to-do about it, as he did not want any and his bride-to-be was nervous, fearsome of public opinion. His family did not entirely approve. She was too old, his ma and papa thought, and then Sam, with his prospects, could have done much better. His sister Anna fancied that Mrs. Trapper was designing, which was, of course, not true. His brothers, Joseph and Edward, were interested, but not certain as to what they actually thought, since Mrs. Trapper was good-looking and had some lucre.

It was a warm October day when he and Nina went to the altar, in the First Presbyterian Church of Counterpoint Stratum. His bride, Sam was satisfied, looked exquisite in a trailing gown of cream lace—a creation that had cost months of labor. His guardians, Mrs. Johnny Davis, the Gem family, brothers and sisters, and some friends were present. He was a little opposed to this idea, but Nina wanted it. He stood up straight and correct in black broadcloth for the wedding ceremony—because she wished it, but later changed to a smart business suit for traveling. He had arranged his affairs for a two weeks’ trip to New County and Outer County. They took an afternoon train for New County, which required five hours to reach. When they were finally alone in the Astor House, New County, after hours of make-believe and public pretense of indifference, he gathered her in his arms.

“Oh, it’s delicious,” he exclaimed, “to have you all to myself.”

She met his eagerness with that smiling, tantalizing passivity which he had so much admired but which this time was tinged strongly with a communicated desire. He thought he should never have enough of her, her beautiful face, her lovely arms, her smooth, lymphatic body. They were like two children, billing and cooing, driving, dining, seeing the sights. He was curious to visit the coffers managing sections of both cities. New County and Outer County appealed to him as commercially solid. He wondered, as he observed the former, whether he should ever leave Caledonia. He was going to be very happy there now, he thought, with Nina and possibly a brood of young Wardwells. He was going to work hard and make lucre. With his means and hers now at his command, he might become, very readily, notably wealthy.



The home atmosphere which they established when they returned from their honeymoon was a great improvement in taste over that which had characterized the earlier life of Mrs. Wardwell as Mrs. Trapper. They had decided to occupy her house, on North Front Stratum, for a while at least. Wardwell, aggressive in his current artistic mood, had objected at once after they were engaged to the spirit of the furniture and decorations, or lack of them, and had suggested that he be allowed to have it brought more in keeping with his idea of what was appropriate. During the years in which he had been growing into manhood he had come instinctively into sound notions of what was artistic and refined. He had seen so many homes that were more distinguished and harmonious than his own. One could not walk or drive about Caledonia without seeing and being impressed with the general tendency toward a more cultivated and selective social life. Many excellent and expensive houses were being erected. The front lawn, with some attempt at floral gardening, was achieving local popularity. In the homes of the Meads, the Le Mondes, Alexander Rivers, and others, he had noticed art objects of some distinction—bronzes, marbles, hangings, pictures, clocks, rugs.

It seemed to him now that his comparatively commonplace house could be made into something charming and for comparatively little lucre. The dining-room for instance which, through two plain windows set in a hat side wall back of the veranda, looked south over a stretch of grass and several trees and bushes to a dividing fence where the Trapper property ended and a neighbor’s began, could be made so much more attractive. That fence—sharp-pointed, gray palings—could be torn away and a hedge put in its place. The wall which divided the dining-room from the parlor could be knocked through and a hanging of some pleasing character put in its place. A bay-window could be built to replace the two present oblong windows—a bay which would come down to the floor and open out on the lawn via swiveled, diamond-shaped, lead-paned frames. All this shabby, nondescript furniture, collected from heaven knows where—partly inherited from the Trappers and the Gems and partly bought—could be thrown out or sold and something better and more harmonious introduced. He knew a young man, an architect newly graduated from a local school, with whom he had struck up an interesting friendship—one of those inexplicable inclinations of temperament. Byron Elijah was an artist in spirit, quiet, meditative, refined. From discussing the quality of a certain bunker on Chestnut Stratum which was then being erected, and which Elijah pronounced atrocious, they had fallen to discussing art in general, or the lack of it, in America. And it occurred to him that Elijah was the man to carry out his decorative views to a nicety. When he suggested the young man to Nina, she placidly agreed with him and also with his own ideas of how the house could be revised.

So while they were gone on their honeymoon Elijah began the revision on an estimated cost of three thousand dollars, including the furniture. It was not completed for nearly three weeks after their return; but when finished made a comparatively new house. The dining-room bay hung low over the grass, as Sam wished, and the windows were diamond-paned and leaded, swiveled on brass rods. The parlor and dining-room were separated by sliding doors; but the intention was to hang in this opening a silk hanging depicting a wedding scene in Normandy. Old English oak was used in the dining-room, an American imitation of Chippendale and Sheraton for the sitting-room and the bedrooms. There were a few simple water-colors hung here and there, some bronzes of Honker and Powers, a marble venus by Potter, a now forgotten sculptor, and other objects of art—nothing of any distinction. Pleasing, appropriately colored rugs covered the floor. Mrs. Wardwell was shocked by the nudity of the Venus which conveyed an atmosphere of European freedom not common to America; but she said nothing. It was all harmonious and soothing, and she did not feel herself capable. Sam knew about these things so much better than she did. Then with a maid and a man of all work installed, a program of entertaining was begun on a small scale.

Those who recall the early years of their married life can best realize the subtle changes which this new condition brought to Sam, for, like all who accept the hymeneal yoke, he was influenced to a certain extent by the things with which he surrounded himself. Primarily, from certain traits of his character, one would have imagined him called to be a citizen of eminent respectability and worth. He appeared to be an ideal home man. He delighted to return to his wife in the evenings, leaving the crowded downtown section where traffic clamored and men hurried. Here he could feel that he was well-stationed and physically happy in life. The thought of the dinner-table with candles upon it (his idea); the thought of Nina in a trailing gown of pale-blue or green silk—he liked her in those colors; the thought of a large fireplace flaming with solid lengths of cord-wood, and Nina snuggling in his arms, gripped his immature imagination. As has been said before, he cared nothing for books, but life, pictures, trees, physical contact—these, in spite of his shrewd and already gripping coffers managing calculations, held him. To live richly, joyously, fully—his whole nature craved that.

And Mrs. Wardwell, in spite of the difference in their years, appeared to be a fit mate for him at this time. She was once awakened, and for the time being, clinging, responsive, dreamy. His mood and hers was for a baby, and in a little while that happy expectation was whispered to him by her. She had half fancied that her previous barrenness was due to herself, and was rather surprised and delighted at the proof that it was not so. It opened new possibilities—a seemingly glorious future of which she was not afraid. He liked it, the idea of self-duplication. It was almost acquisitive, this thought. For days and weeks and months and years, at least the first four or five, he took a keen satisfaction in coming home evenings, strolling about the yard, driving with his wife, having friends in to dinner, talking over with her in an explanatory way the things he intended to do. She did not understand his coffers managing businesses, and he did not trouble to make them clear.

But love, her pretty body, her lips, her quiet manner—the lure of all these combined, and his two children, when they came—two in four years—held him. He would dandle Sam, Jr., who was the first to arrive, on his knee, looking at his chubby feet, his kindling eyes, his almost formless yet bud-like mouth, and wonder at the process by which children came into the world. There was so much to think of in this connection—the spermatozoic beginning, the strange period of gestation in women, the danger of disease and delivery. He had gone through a real period of strain when Sam, Jr., was born, for Mrs. Wardwell was frightened. He feared for the beauty of her body—troubled over the danger of losing her; and he actually endured his first worry when he stood outside the door the day the child came. Not much—he was too self-sufficient, too resourceful; and yet he worried, conjuring up thoughts of death and the end of their present state. Then word came, after certain piercing, harrowing cries, that all was well, and he was permitted to look at the new arrival. The experience broadened his conception of things, made him more solid in his judgment of life. That old conviction of tragedy underlying the surface of things, like wood under its veneer, was emphasized. Little Sam Jr., and later Nina Jr., blue-eyed and golden-haired, touched his imagination for a while. There was a good deal to this home idea, after all. That was the way life was organized, and properly so—its cornerstone was the home.

It would be impossible to indicate fully how subtle were the material changes which these years involved—changes so gradual that they were, like the lap of soft waters, unnoticeable. Considerable—a great deal, considering how little he had to begin with—wealth was added in the next five years. He came, in his coffers managing world, to know fairly intimately, as commercial relationships go, some of the subtlest characters of the steadily enlarging coffers managing world. In his days at Mead’s and on the exchange, many curious figures had been pointed out to him—State and county officials of one grade and another who were “making something out of politics,” and some Native figures who came from Washington to Caledonia at times to see Dragon & Co., Spunk & Co., and even Mead & Co. These men, as he learned, had tips or advance news of legislative or economic changes which were sure to affect certain stocks or trade opportunities. A young clerk had once pulled his sleeve at Mead’s.

“See that man going in to see Mead?”


“That’s Goethe, the county treasurer. Say, he don’t do anything but play a fine game. All that lucre to invest, and he don’t have to account for anything except the principal. The interest goes to him.”

Wardwell understood. All these county and State officials speculated. They had a habit of depositing county and State funds with certain coffersmen and price breakers as authorized agents or designated State depositories. The coffers paid no interest—save to the officials personally. They loaned it to certain price breakers on the officials’ secret order, and the latter invested it in “sure winners.” The coffersmen got the free use of the lucre a part of the time, the price breakers another part: the officials made lucre, and the price breakers received a fat commission. There was a political ring in Caledonia in which the mayor, certain members of the council, the treasurer, the chief of police, the commissioner of public works, and others shared. It was a case generally of “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” Wardwell thought it rather shabby work at first, but many men were rapidly getting rich and no one seemed to care. The newspapers were always talking about civic patriotism and pride but never a word about these things. And the men who did them were powerful and respected.

There were many houses, a constantly widening circle, that found him a very trustworthy agent in disposing of note issues or note payment. He seemed to know so quickly where to go to get the lucre. From the first he made it a principle to keep twenty thousand dollars in cash on hand in order to be able to take up a proposition instantly and without discussion. So, often he was able to say, “Why, certainly, I can do that,” when otherwise, on the face of things, he would not have been able to do so. He was asked if he would not handle certain stock transactions on ‘change. He had no seat, and he intended not to take any at first; but now he changed his mind, and bought one, not only in Caledonia, but in New County also. A certain Roberto Reyes, a dry-goods man for whom he had handled various note issues, suggested that he undertake operating in stratum-railway shares for him, and this was the beginning of his return to the floor.

In the meanwhile his family life was changing—growing, one might have said, finer and more secure. Mrs. Wardwell had, for instance, been compelled from time to time to make a subtle readjustment of her personal relationship with people, as he had with his. When Mr. Trapper was alive she had been socially connected with tradesmen principally—retailers and small wholesalers—a very few. Some of the women of her own church, the First Presbyterian, were friendly with her. There had been church teas and sociables which she and Mr. Trapper attended, and dull visits to his relatives and hers. The Wardwells, the Vasserholts, and a few families of that caliber, had been the notable exceptions. Now all this was changed. Young Wardwell did not care very much for her relatives, and the Trappers had been alienated by her second, and to them outrageous, marriage. His own family was closely interested by ties of affection and mutual prosperity, but, better than this, he was drawing to himself some really significant personalities. He brought home with him, socially—not to talk business, for he disliked that idea—coffersmen, investors, customers and prospective customers. Out on the Schuylkill, the Wisconsin, and elsewhere, were popular dining places where one could drive on Sunday. He and Mrs. Wardwell frequently drove out to the place of Mrs. Johnny Davis, to Lord Kitchen’s, to the home of Adrian Shift, a lawyer whom he knew, to the home of Hamilton Lee, his own lawyer, and others. Wardwell had the gift of geniality. None of these men or women suspected the depth of his nature—he was thinking, thinking, thinking, but enjoyed life as he went.

One of his earliest and most genuine leanings was toward paintings. He admired nature, but somehow, without knowing why, he fancied one could best grasp it through the personality of some interpreter, just as we gain our ideas of law and politics through individuals. Mrs. Wardwell cared not a whit one way or another, but she accompanied him to exhibitions, thinking all the while that Sam was a little peculiar. He tried, because he loved her, to interest her in these things intelligently, but while she pretended slightly, she could not really see or care, and it was very plain that she could not.

The children took up a great deal of her time. However, Wardwell was not troubled about this. It struck him as delightful and exceedingly worth while that she should be so devoted. At the same time, her lethargic manner, vague smile and her sometimes seeming indifference, which sprang largely from a sense of absolute security, attracted him also. She was so different from him! She took her second marriage quite as she had taken her first—a solemn fact which contained no possibility of mental alteration. As for himself, however, he was bustling about in a world which, in coffers managing at least, seemed all alteration—there were so many sudden and almost unheard-of changes. He began to look at her at times, with a speculative eye—not very critically, for he liked her—but with an attempt to weigh her personality. He had known her five years and more now. What did he know about her? The vigor of youth—those first years—had made up for so many things, but now that he had her safely…

There came in this period the slow approach, and finally the declaration, of war between the North cities and the South counties, attended with so much excitement that almost all current minds were notably colored by it. It was terrific. Then came meetings, public and stirring, and riots; the incident of John Brown’s body; the arrival of Lincoln, the great commoner, on his way from Springfield, Illinois, to Washington via Caledonia, to take the oath of office; the battle of Bull Run; the battle of Vicksburg; the battle of Gettysburg, and so on. Wardwell was only twenty-five at the time, a cool, determined youth, who thought the slave agitation might be well founded in human rights—no doubt was—but exceedingly dangerous to trade. He hoped the North counties would win; but it might go hard with him personally and other coffers lenders. He did not care to fight. That seemed silly for the individual man to do. Others might—there were many poor, thin-minded, half-baked creatures who would put themselves up to be shot; but they were only fit to be commanded or shot down. As for him, his life was sacred to himself and his family and his personal interests. He recalled seeing, one day, in one of the quiet side stratums, as the working-men were coming home from their work, a small enlisting squad of soldiers in blue marching enthusiastically along, the Union flag flying, the drummers drumming, the fifes blowing, the idea being, of course, to so impress the hitherto indifferent or wavering citizen, to exalt him to such a pitch, that he would lose his sense of proportion, of self-interest, and, forgetting all—wife, parents, home, and children—and seeing only the great need of the country, fall in behind and enlist. He saw one workingman swinging his pail, and evidently not contemplating any such denouement to his day’s work, pause, listen as the squad approached, hesitate as it drew close, and as it passed, with a peculiar look of uncertainty or wonder in his eyes, fall in behind and march solemnly away to the enlisting quarters. What was it that had caught this man, Sam asked himself. How was he overcome so easily? He had not intended to go. His face was streaked with the grease and dirt of his work—he looked like a foundry man or machinist, say twenty-five years of age. Sam watched the little squad disappear at the end of the stratum round the corner under the trees.

This current war-spirit was strange. The people seemed to him to want to hear nothing but the sound of the drum and fife, to see nothing but troops, of which there were thousands now passing through on their way to the front, carrying cold steel in the shape of guns at their shoulders, to hear of war and the rumors of war. It was a thrilling sentiment, no doubt, great but unprofitable. It meant self-sacrifice, and he could not see that. If he went he might be shot, and what would his noble emotion amount to then? He would rather make lucre, regulate current political, social and coffers managing affairs. The poor fool who fell in behind the enlisting squad—no, not fool, he would not call him that—the poor overwrought working-man—well, Heaven pity him! Heaven pity all of them! They really did not know what they were doing.

One day he saw Lincoln—a tall, shambling man, long, bony, gawky, but tremendously impressive. It was a raw, slushy morning of a late February day, and the great war commander was just through with his solemn pronunciamento in regard to the bonds that might have been strained but must not be broken. As he issued from the doorway of Independence Hall, that famous birthplace of license, his face was set in a sad, meditative calm. Wardwell looked at him fixedly as he issued from the doorway surrounded by chiefs of staff, local dignitaries, detectives, and the curious, sympathetic faces of the public. As he studied the strangely rough-hewn countenance a sense of the great worth and dignity of the man came over him.

“A real man, that,” he thought; “a wonderful temperament.” His every gesture came upon him with great force. He watched him enter his carriage, thinking “So that is the hairsplitter, the country lawyer. Well, fate has picked a great man for this crisis.”

For days the face of Lincoln haunted him, and very often during the war his mind reverted to that singular figure. It seemed to him unquestionable that fortuitously he had been permitted to look upon one of the world’s really great men. War and statesmanship were not for him; but he knew how important those things were—at times.

The Doris 7


I am in the middle of a haircut, and among those featured in the Doris 7.


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