i am not frank hinton

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i have translated luna miguel's most recent blog post using google translate

Although I have already spoken more than once in all these subjects and authors, the New spleen and the recent New wave generation vomit, I like to delve into my thoughts and come forward any news and curiosity. Vomiting of the new wave, as I told you, is that page colorfully American punk poet Ana C. runs for a while. It compiles as a magazine or anthology, a series of texts by contemporary authors, young and not so young, poets and storytellers, who are still starting in this literature. Vomiting of the new wave is also a kind of war cry name generation they belong to many of the writers I have read recently in exclusivity and are slowly coming to our computers, lists of blogs or even racks (Messrs. of AbeBooks and Amazon, how much we owe ourselves, the other side of the pond). This new generation of American designers led by Tao Lin is undoubtedly the most popular and most international of all, and today the only two books translated and published in our country, and by Dorothea Lasky, Zachary Germain, Ellen Kennedy or Chelsea Martin.

Beyond quality and literary style, one of the most interesting of all is the will of the group, that carefree attitude while so engaged with literature. Anthologies, readings, blogs, groups, plaquettes, DTP. A non-stop. A world where every day there is a story, a theme, an analysis or recovery of the classics, a poem that claim. HTML spaces like Giant, Popserial, Thought Catalog or even Goodreads network are updated daily and serve as a platform for both the self as criticism, opinion or review of particular literary creation and global level. It is therefore a number of authors who have known better than anyone adapt their dynamics, their passion and ultimately his job to the Internet and new technologies, without neglecting the beloved role that unites us all. An example that neither the poetry nor the book are dead on paper gives us Steve Roggenbuck (Chicago, 1987) self-published book author i am like octoberwhen i am dead, only with a printer, scissors and a stapler, the book sold more copies than any Spanish author, first-or reputed could imagine. Sometimes you feel like a stick to put all of this. We might think that all look very similar. Which have all been uploaded to the (new) wave of Tao Lin. Taking advantage of social networks to promote nonsense. What they do is not poetry. Etc etc etc. But I would not be difficult to explain why these authors are worth, why I think they are changing the way of thinking about poetry and why are not all the "imitators"of the phenomenon of Tao Lin.

Tao Lin met in 2006 after browse the blog of one Ryan Manning, who did an interview with the author of Eee eeee eeeee. Ryan Manning left a kind of spam in the comments of my blog. First I was afraid it was some virus and then happily discovered it was just another blog of literature written in a language that I hated (then also lived in France and English was Purita merde). Tao's blog I Molo. Remember to leave a "Love" in one of its entries. He replied with a smiley face. Time passed and I kept going to his blog, he even suggested to my parents to have a look and publish it in Spain (ay, father and mother, if you would have ahead of Ana S. couple now be rich, muajaja muajaja) . In 2008 I met Ibrahim Berlin. One of our first conversations was about this guy. In 2009 Ibrah made public practices and prepared a report on Ellen Kennedy, Tao Lin and Zachary German who never saw the light. Thanks to that report dead discovered that Tao was translated in Spain and published by a little girl in his book was completely overlooked. I bought it at The Central. I was amused to find in the literature section of the East. The book, I think, was good. I found it funny, but did not like Ibrah So, in fact it molo this author is not nothing, until he read with attention the copy of Richard Yates ordered by AbeBooks and our friend Julio Fuertes finished translating to Alpha Decay about two weeks ago. Richard Yates will talk at length Ibrahim Berlin in the next issue of Chimera in a few days will be on the street. This number will also appear translated a poem by Tao Lin, another Dorothea Lasky and a Kendra Grant Malone, the beginning of an anthology of poetry by young Americans to be published in 2012 in The Gaviero Editions. Too much information. Wait. My head will explode. Ay. Ay. Ay.

Tao Lin's poetry (this was getting at) is the greatest example of what poetry today under 30 in the U.S.: the sweet ego, anecdote above all, the interior monologue, the speed, depression, loneliness This teen, pop, new technologies ... there is a very strong narrative. In fact, almost all American young poets of the story jump to poetry, poetry to the story without realizing it. His poetry, most of them will be rather difficult to introduce into our market, although it seems that there is a generation ready to accept other critics prefer to mark it off modernacos or neither-nor generation of letters. I are cool. Inspire me. I do believe that the little world of poetry is not flawed. Makes me doubt, again, what is purity? Purity is doing what one likes, and do it well, working, enjoying, discovering and sharing amazing things. Ana C., Dierks Stephen Tully, Richard Chiem, Poncho Peligroso (the poet laureate of 2011) or Brittany Wallace are some recent authors have read and I really liked. They are also good colleagues, and walls of Facebook or Tumbrls me look really fun.

It's nice to be living this. It's nice, I think, soak up the vomit blue and radioactive.

poncho peligroso for poet laureate

2011 poet laureate

three remixes

No Love Is Not Dead
by Robert Desnos; translated by Bill Zavatsky

At dawn before putting yourself to bed

Tell yourself you shouldn’t be sorry for anything

Want to be remembered for anything

On this despicable earth

For having known and loved you

Your gaze and how it shines

You, when you die

One rainy day

One spring morning

Listen, I’ve had enough of the picturesque, of colors and charm

Love, its tenderness and its cruelty

You, when you die,

You will still be beautiful and desirable

really attractive girls walk by and i just sit here

by Ana C.

dude

really attractive girls walk by here

i just sit

i'm ridiculous

i'm not even kidding

i stare listen and type

i'm ridiculous

Cherrylog Road
By James Dickey

I held her and held her and held her,

With deadly overexcitement,

Wild to be wreckage forever

Arbitrary Xmas Story

Santa Claus is looking at his MacBook. iTunes is open. He looks at the song “On Fire” by Sebadoh. He clicks it and drags it to the playlist “Bitch Ass Winter Mix.”

Samuel Beckett is sitting on a park bench somewhere near his house. He thinks about Santa Claus. He thinks about other things. He has noise-cancelling earbuds that are attached to his iPod in his ears and is listening to the song “Bed Rock” by Young Money.

Santa Claus turns the volume up very loud and listens to the song “The La-Z-Boy 500” by the Falcon. He thinks about the sincere tone the singer is using. He tries to remember the last time he felt sincere. He thinks about Samuel Beckett. He double clicks the song “Dancing in the Moonlight” by Thin Lizzy.

He thinks about present-tense Santa Claus. There are multiple present-tense Santa Clauses. “They keep replacing each other,” he thinks. He feels like he can’t keep up. There is only one future-tense Santa Claus.

“Representational,” he thinks. He puts his coat and hat on and walks outside.

Samuel Beckett gets up from the park bench and walks towards the park’s entrance. He can see Santa Clause. Santa Claus sees him. He is smiling. Samuel Beckett removes his earbuds. They stop at the entrance, near an iron gate.

Samuel Beckett touches Santa Claus’s shoulder. He is still smiling. “Do you want to go to the movies,” Samuel Beckett says, “Inception is playing at 9:30.”

“Inception,” Santa Claus says. He still seems to be smiling, “Is Inception better than me? Am I dumber than Inception? Does Inception have a perceivably higher IQ than me? What am I saying? Would Inception ever even pose that question? Inception isn’t aware of my existence. Inception is unconsciously contented by that, I think. Inception is subconsciously glad it will never have to come into contact with me.”

“I think I’m going to go. Other’s are going. Are you coming,” Samuel Beckett says.

“Inception is an existential thing that hates my guts,” Santa Claus says, “so smug and condescending.” All the present-tense Santa Clauses are dramatizing crying. The future-tense Santa Claus seems angry. “An army of outdated present-tense Santa Clauses,” he thinks.

“I’m going to get coffee. Call me after the movie if you want to drink beers with me somewhere.”

“OK,” Samuel Beckett says. He looks at Santa Claus.

“I don’t know what I’m doing right now,” Santa Claus says.

Samuel Beckett walks away. Santa Claus walks towards the street.

“I don’t know what I’m doing right now,” he says quietly to himself, “I don’t know what I’m doing ever.”

Santa Claus thinks about future-tense Santa Claus being angry at the present-tense Santa Clauses who all seem to be trying to piece together a collective thought. “I don’t understand the logic behind future-tense Santa Claus,” he thinks, “and why is there not a past-tense Santa Claus. Why can’t all the present-tense Santa Clauses go away and, like form one coherent past-tense Santa Claus?”

Santa Claus walks across the street. A car swerves to miss him and honks. Santa Claus feels angry and confused at the consequential temporary meaningfulness it gives his life.

I’ll just put, like a playlist of three songs on repeat and listen to it for like a week.

I mostly ride my bike to work. I am mostly a person. I am a monster maybe.

Sometimes I’ll make a new playlist with two of the songs from the old three-song playlist and add another song and put that on repeat, or sometimes I just put those two songs on repeat.

When I ride my bike I sometimes feel sad about it. Mostly I like riding my bike, but it is about three miles to work and there are a lot of hills and sometimes it is cold.

I move around my house after work thinking of things to do. Sometimes I click on Facebook and think, “What do I do now” and then I feel like splitting in two because I can’t answer that question. I can’t even say, “nothing” or “I’m not sure” or things like that. I pick up my guitar and make noise. I click on Gmail. I make more noises with the guitar. I walk downstairs and make coffee or drink beer.

I walk back upstairs with my coffee or beer. I look at Gmail. I scroll through everyone on Gchat. I click on Facebook. I pick my guitar up. I make noises with it.

I click on blogs. I look around my room. I walk to my roommate's room. We watch TV or I watch him play video games. My other roommate comes home. We go to Starbucks maybe.

Starbucks is depressing mostly. There is an old guy who works at the one we go to. He is slow moving and jovial. I don’t know. I edit prose things there. It feels like I never get anywhere with it. I don’t like, add words I think. I don’t like the things I have written but it seems hard to give them up. I don’t know what I am doing.

Ryan Manning

Michael Inscoe

Megan Boyle