chris cunningham - Hosho McCreesh vs Father Luke

I should have known better than asking a couple of the most highly regarded poets in the small press for interviews. Having done so, I opened myself up to a mad, finger painting romp through the depths of insanity and hell.

Not because the poets were hellions, or mad, or that their words, and thoughts were like infants at a paint set - - no, no. Poets talk in kaleidoscopes, and throwing a rainbow into a blender at high speed leads to some interesting results. . . Ho ho. Haw haw. . .

The interview was conducted through a series of emails. Wild clutches at intimacy
through electronic mail.

Here now Hosho McCreesh, and chris cunningham. . .

Father Luke:

Thank you gentlemen. A dual interview will be a first at Mary. By the
way? Jump in and ask any questions of me you like. That's why it's
ping-pong.

I'll begin.

When/how did you two meet?

Hosho McCreesh:

Well, we haven't--not face to face anyways. If memory serves, we'd both had published in The American Dissident, a few other places, & Chris dropped me an email. In both his original email & in my response we intimated that we didn't prefer computers...so we started typing & mailing letters. This was late 2001, I believe...though I'd have to look back. We'd trade a letter or two every week, often responses would pass another letter en route, probably somewhere around New Orleans. It was evident to me from the beginning that in Chris was a real kindred spirit--& finding a thick letter in the mailbox every few days became a kind of thing to rely on. I'd sit right down & read it, because, always in them was a kind of hard-won, amused acceptance of the terrible world...as well as a gritty determination when it came to art, and the living of life of meaning & purpose.

chris cunningham:
gents:
please hold for my responses; driving back home and will answer all questions tonight after midnight

Father Luke:

Just so everyone is on the same page:

A comfortable sense of leisure is essential. This puppy won't run
until May. We have enough time to fill an eighty foot truck. . .

chris cunningham:
as hosho said, we haven't actually met.
I read one of his poems in a lit mag, a poem called

"8 nights & their subsequent sunrises:"
( 8 Nights & Their Subsequent Sunrises )

and I said, I gotta write this motherfucker and see if he's got any books. hosh wrote back and said, yes, and we began trading letters that spit and puked and barked and sang and were one of the few things that made working like an animal in a restaurant six nights a week bearable back then. just having one arrive in the box was enough to keep the fire lit most times. we appeared in the AD at some point at the same time and then the corresp. just grew and grew. often, our exchanges were/are a little bit like mind reading...

Hosho McCreesh:
It's funny because that poem was published in Rattle, in a kind of tribute to Native American poets issue...& I am pretty sure they published it because of my name, because they thought--being from New Mexico, with a handle like I've got--that I was obviously Native American. They've had no interest in my work before or since...guess the jig is up...

chris cunningham:
oh and Father Luke:

when did you yourself meet? at what point did YOU connect with YOU?

Father Luke:
I met myself around 1988. My marriage had gone to hell. I saw stop
signs in every direction.

The only thing I have ever done with any consistency was write. For
some reason I had it in my head that I wanted to be a comedian. I
studied Comedy. Scientifically studied it. The works which have been
done on comedy - you can find them if you research right away. Henri
Bergson’s theory of laughter, etc.

I even tried doing standup for a spell when I found out that anyone
could be a standup comic. But I flipped a coin in front of the Holy
City Zoo in San Francisco one night:

Heads I would be a Priest
Tails I would be a Comic

I wound up being a writer.

For the record:

How many books you cats have to your names each?

chris cunningham:

comedy eh? it's one of the most necessary of the artforms. to laugh. man, that's what I seek most of the time. it's part of the problem of poetry: it forces me to confront my compassion, my "suffering with" others, and to explicate it in some form I can deal with, which is usually the poem/metaphor/image that allows further philisophical concentration and contemplation. it's a search for truth and meaning in a fucking useless void. and the jester has always been allowed to mock the king, so that has a vast appeal I can appreciate even if I can't do it. comedy does the same thing as the poem when done well, but also gives a laugh to soften the blow of truth.

I've come across coins like that in my life as well: fucking broken things that always tell the truth...

for the record, as of May 2009, I have 12 books and chaps of poems and letters, according to my bibliographer Mr. Snrub, from Snrub's Official Compendiums of Numbers, Important Things and Other Asst'd. Bullshittery.

(editor's note:)
(http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/christophercunningham)
(http://my.att.net/p/s/community.dll?ep=16&groupid=316933&ck=)

Father Luke:

How long have you been writing chris? Is it Chris? Capital C or chris
lower case. Does it matter?

When did you embrace writing?

I wrote as long back as I remember. Only within the last year have I
allowed myself to say:

Okay. Yeah. I write. I'm a writer.

chris cunningham:

I've always written, but in high school after reading some ts eliot (and listening to some morrissey and some echo and the bunnymen) I wrote some "real poems" and handed em in to my school literary magazine and they published the lot of em. and I just remembered (I usually don't bother "remembering things" as I hate nostalgia and prefer to work in the present most times) there is a picture of me at high school graduation talking to these two blond cheerleaders I'd never even traded word one with (I ran with the class clown group because of the general population's acceptance of the aforementioned jesters of the world) who came up to me and asked if I'd written these poems in the magazine. they said they loved em, and at that moment I saw the possibility of communication across invented human borders, a way to get thru to someone I'd never talk to but could reach with words all the same. it was pretty powerful, though it's really only NOW that I can see what was happening there in that picture: a moment of actual human connection without invented artifice and class and etc. forged via the ARTFORM. and since then, it's happened in instances I can only describe as incredibly humbling, and are directly the result of the poems. oh, and for about six or eight years in there somewhere I played guitar in a few bands and didn't write anything but music, until I started up again when I was following some hippie bands around the country back in the ninetie, then I began subbing stuff in 2001 and now I'm Somebody Who Writes.

I still don't embrace it: but it won't go away and like an old dog, it embraces me no matter how much I kick it around the yard and tell it to fuck off. so I let it hang around. really, I've always considered myself more of an antennae for the words, as I rarely edit; the shit just flows out when I sit at the machine, and I can't tell you how or why or anything else about the process other than I believe in a sort of 'right life:' that living attuned to LIFE is the way IN to the artform and a way of making sure the truth is at the fore rather than the ego of the artistic self.

as for my name, it doesn't matter: most of my lowercase shit has been a direct result of using a typewriter and being too lazy and furiously typing to stop and use the shift key. so you can use either. but stylistically now I find I like lowercase in poems except for most proper names and places and the personal "I." but I also am not a fan of rules for myself, so that can change at any moment...

padre;

don't you mostly feel like the words write you too? I mean, isn't that the pure state we seek when we sit at the machine and attempt to tell the truth about our lives? to peel back the onion's layers? we need that blank humming void where the words magically filter in and form into sentences and then spill out onto the page right? and then we can be drunk and tired and beaten but still seem like writers...

Father Luke:

I was the editor on the High School Paper. Photographer for the
yearbook. Me and the other photogs went out and got drunk most of the
time, so there are few pictures of anything other than real Animal
House crazy-ass shit for the yearbook. There is a notation, however:

"Due to the fact that our photographers got drunk and refused to take
any pictures we will have no Basketball Team photos this year."

Of course our names are listed. For that I was elected into the Quill
and Scroll. Then, too I was kicked out of High School for making the
kids laugh. Love brings up everything unlike itself, I guess.

But I do remember finding writing, time and time again. I never hung
with anyone in High School. I was a guy who fit in with everyone, and
I held no allegiance.

I found a room. It was deserted, but it was sort of an office. It had
an old Royal 'typer in it. Black like night.I set a pencil inside it
to see if anyone used it, and I would come back and check for days to
see if it had been disturbed. I soon was sure that I had an isolated
space, and a 'typer to use as much as I wanted. I typed the year away
in there. That's how I spent my lunch hours when I wasn't getting
drunk, and high. Writing. Eventually I think I stole the 'typer and
put it in my room.

That year I took and adult ed writing class. Mostly old folks
gathering around to pretend that they were interested in writing. But
they were a good audience. And the instructor offered some assignments
which inspired me to stretch as a writer. I'm a lazy writer. Mostly I
write at night, exhausted, before I go to bed.

No editing for the most part.

Looking back on my writing, I cringe. I hate reading my stuff. I see
where I have grown in my craft, and the mistakes, to me at least, are
embarrassing. But I leave the shit be. It's a historical record of my
progress. You know, like:

Do you like the young Father Luke, or the old Father Luke?

Personally I can't tell what anyone sees in my shit.

Do you get that? Not seeing what others see in your writing?

For good or bad, cap'n, I know I'm a writer. It's what I do in between
all the other things I do, like love my girl friend, go to school, and
be tech-admin at Mary.

I said that writing found me. It has over the years. More than once it
has dragged me back into it's vortex, spinning me 'round, and around,
and around.

Most of what I do in life is useless. Fun as hell, but useless. And
when I sit down and write. . .

it all just goes away. The words make sense. The writing makes sense.
Nothing else matters.

Then I look back on it, and say, Fuck. Who am I fooling. But the
writing is the thing. I'm a slave to it.

chris cunningham:

ha; in high school I spent my lunch hours in the dark room trying to be a photographer. I was a pure art nerd, drawing and painting and photos...the writing happened at home always. still does, even though I used to carry a notebook for a time. now if it isn't there when I sit down, well, that's just how it is. oh, except for the many many papers I wrote for people for dough in high school. I had myself quite the little business. and the essays I wrote for detention! they were a favorite of the dean's, and he often offered me bonus hours for my snappy little efforts...

as for "what others see in my writing:" I think at some point, if your work gets out there and published a couple of times, or you have some folks tell you it means something to them, you just accept that if you've written the words first and foremost in an effort to be honest, then the rest is gravy. I take it in stride, I guess. and I think really if the poem works for me when I pull it out of the typewriter, if I can read it right then and say, YES, that does the trick, then I am pleased. and that is enough. all else is delicious gravy that feeds and nourishes the art-soul to continue and continue and it feeds the ambition to get the work out there further, I suppose, to have others acknowledge the effect a good poem can have, so in turn, I feed off the need to write better and better poems.

I can tell you what they see in your shit: you tell the truth. I keep coming back to that word, but that's the only way to describe it. when you nail down a minor detail in an image that speaks volumes about the human condition, when you capture a moment so exactly it reverberates within the skull for days until meaning is shaken loose from the bone fragments and grey matter, what else can you call it? it is a successful transmission from the dark energy of the universe and anyone who is looking for it can see it for what it is. plain language sculpted into more than its parts. the metaphor as a tool for saying the unsayable, the word for that which has no words...

I just retired everything I'd writ before 2009, so I know what you mean about old stuff. I get sick of looking at it, frankly, and stuff it into boxes after a while. I like the thrill of having to write new stuff. the challenge. stacking up sheets of blanks and firing away into the musical night. with wine. and dogs barking. and darkness. and maybe some rain.

no editing for you either eh? here's a question: does it piss alot of people off when you tell them you don't edit? I've experienced a bit of ugly when I've said that to some people in the past. like I'm bragging, in some way. but it's just how I work, nothing more or less. I sit at the machine until the poem arrives in my brain and I plug it into the keys and send it off (or used to, I don't submit much anymore, and have become more concerned lately with books, though again, things change quickly and with very little notice around here)...

gotta sleep for a bit. but keep sending...coffee and wakefulness is never far away...

Father Luke:

The game is tell the truth as fast as you can. I think you play it,
too. What's odd about that is that the truth is unfamiliar.

Why is that?

Well, it could be because there is no truth. A table is a bed, is a
chair is a butcher's block. Some folks say there is no truth. Nothing
is a fact.

But most people know a dead squirrel, don't suddenly come back to
life, and dance with a straw hat, and a Charlie Chaplin cane.

So, the truth is refreshing, because it gets laid aside quite a bit in
favor of anger, or pride, or . . . you know? But it's still there,
peeking around the corner, or standing there like a kid holding a
teddy bear by one arm in pajamas listening to mom and dad yelling at
one another.

The truth is innocent. Pure. Blameless. Like the kid watching mom and
dad yell, and when you suddenly notice it, it's like. . . well, calm
down. The child is listening.

But there it is.

You wrote:

" ( i ). . . accept that if (i've) written the words first and
foremost in an effort to be honest, then the rest is gravy."

Acceptance means to welcome something gladly. It's different from
resignation. Most of my life has been a resignation to something less
than what I felt was what I wanted. Writing is the only time I ever
get that feeling where it is okay; where I welcome something gladly.

As to the editing:

I type pretty bad. I instant message Jenifer all the time, and I told
her I don't like doing that, because she got to know me through my
writing, and here I am writing like this:

hI Jeniferr. How'z it ggoing?

And I look at the written words I have sent and I cringe. But that
isn't writing, is it? And so there is a man behind the words. An
imperfect one. That's part of who I am, too.

So, I will go back and put in a comma, or take one out (Nod to Oscar
Wilde who said: "I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the
morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.")
And I see value in polishing. Maybe a little rewriting as I go along.
But for the most part, what you see is what you get. Then I'm onto
something else.

So, I do correct, and proof my shit. But the writing isn't like that.
I don't go rewrite it. Even looking back, weeks later, and cringing at
what I wrote, I leave it. It's finished. Done.

And what fucks people up the most, cap'n? It's when I say I don't see
why people like my work. But I don't. When I'm writing it, it's the
simplest thing in the world. I just write. And when it's done, it's
the best feeling in the world. But when I read it? I go, yuck. And I'm
sincere in this. I don't like reading my stuff. Rarely do I like to
sit down to my writing and go:

Ah. An enjoyable evening of reading Father Luke's Poetry!

Never. It's like work. And I think that pisses writing - type people
off the most. Because truly? I hardly ever talk about writing. Hardly
anyone I know cares about my writing. They know I write, but that's my
game, my job, my row to hoe, and they stay out of my shit. I don't
talk much to other writers. I walk the dogs with my cousin, and play
with her kids. Normal shit, and writers don't figure much into it.

I'm dying to see how Hosho figures into all this. I'm all for letting
him catch up a bit, eh?

Heh.

Hosho McCreesh:
Jezus...don't you guys sleep? I go to sleep & wake to find an onslaught of questions & answers...&, frankly, I get wrapped up in reading about the both of you! I'm not nearly that interesting. I mean, I played sports, I went to school, college, a fairly vanilla life road compared to both your experiences...

How many books you cats have to your names each?

Of the books that people could buy, there are 7. There is the book that never was--While Dust Plumes Rise...a book that got all the way to proof/galleys before the project fell apart. 15 copies may or may not have been given to a Poetry Superhighway contest to be given out as prizes--I'm not sure. I had 3 copies: I sent one to my Mom (which might've been lost int he mail); I left one in the apartment I rented in Paris; & sent the 3rd to Chris--who, as far as I know, has the only copy. I've also made a mess of small booklets & broadsides over the years--all of which Chris has as well. His McCreesh collection is better than mine!

(editor's note:)
( http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/hoshomccreesh )
( http://www.guerillapoetics.org/poets/index.php?ShowMember=10452 )

When did you embrace writing?

I'd say I began writing seriously in college. I'd always written...going back to elementary school...but not really for a reason. I found it relaxed me, to sit & put what I was thinking & feeling on paper. I also found it helped me make sense of things that were happening in my life, helped me understand myself a little better which, to me, is the most valuable thing about it. But in college I remember a girl telling me "you take your writing very seriously, I admire that" & I'd never really thought about it before then, but she was right. That was it, I suppose. Since then I've been writing consistently, trying to write a novel, writing short stories, &, of course, poetry. It's still the same for me: a way to understand myself, understand the world...but publishing more has meant the words can reach people & connect...share a kind of human understanding with each other--& that is a remarkable thing to have happen with the work after the fact. Like Chris said, it's very humbling, I'm always honored by it, if not always feeling somewhat undeserving.

Padre: Where's home? What's home?

chris cunningham:
But it's still there,
peeking around the corner, or standing there like a kid holding a
teddy bear by one arm in pajamas listening to mom and dad yelling at
one another.

The truth is innocent. Pure. Blameless. Like the kid watching mom and
dad yell, and when you suddenly notice it, it's like. . . well, calm
down. The child is listening.

But there it is.

this is good. this is what the truth is. it's the air of the room at that instant. it is undeniable. it wrenches your guts into a sudden knot of BEING PRESENT ALL TOGETHER, all senses alert and paying attention with the focus of a hunter peering thru the darkness at elusive prey. it's the twitching ear of the child and the future remembrance of echoing noise in close kitchen under dim wattages. it's what gets spawned at that moment, for good or ill.

it's a rabbit searching for a way thru your garden fence...

You wrote:

" ( i ). . . accept that if (i've) written the words first and
foremost in an effort to be honest, then the rest is gravy."

Acceptance means to welcome something gladly. It's different from
resignation. Most of my life has been a resignation to something less
than what I felt was what I wanted. Writing is the only time I ever
get that feeling where it is okay; where I welcome something gladly.

I get you here. I do welcome it. it saves me and keeps me from real honest to fucking god madness to write. it's something that carries its own reward. by the same token, the living of the life requires a certain resignation, and part of that is the NEED to write which, even though the finished work takes you out of yourself, is something we resign ourselves to. when we turn our lives into art, this slips even further away and we draw closer to being an art form rather than needing the art form. does that make sense? the closer we pay attention, the more we face the day with the buddha's smile of bemused acceptance and active participation in the suffering, each time we live AS a poem and impart the truth of each moment to others in our actions as well as our words, we get nearer to being more fully realized human beings...and shit, that "want" you speak of is the problem, right? the desire for something to be different than it actually is? well, like you say, writing cures that; it enables an alchemy of resignation into acceptance...

As to the editing:

the comma thing is a good one; that's about it for me too, and I do it while the thing is still in the machine as it's a pain in the ass to retype stuff. my electric IBM has good correction capabilities, and as long as the page is still rolled into it, I can fix those little comma errors or misspellings, etc. otherwise, once it's out, it's a poem, for good or ill.

now prose and shorts are different animals. I cut and cut and cut those until they're just bone and traces of glistening blood...

Father Luke:
Hosho: Padre: Where's home? What's home?

Home is a memory, a flashback, a trick. I've been homeless so much,
and I'm actually homeless again, that I don't think I know what home
really is, Hosho. My hope is that it's the love I share with the woman
who means everything to me. The where would be with her, and she lives
in the Pacific Northwest. Home is with her. I'm getting old. Fifty is
getting old, right? I don't necessarily feel old, but I know that my
life is fairly well more than half over. Home means being in love, and
enjoying the joys, and growth, which love brings with it.

Question to Hosho: Do you tell people you write, or is it something
you do in addition to everything else?

Question for chris:
What comes after honesty in writing? Craft, style, or something else?
In other words, if honesty is important in writing, where does
ambition reckon into it? Where does fun reckon into it?

Question for you both:

Do you ever have to worry about money ever again? If so, why?

By the way? It was pointed out to me when I ping-ponged with
justin.barrett that it seemed like we spent a lot of time getting to
know one another. I should say that the three of us have never spoken
as familiar as we are now, and this is the first time we have ever
made an opportunity to sit around the 'puter monitor to get to know
one another. I just hope it doesn't put too many people to sleep ;-)

chris cunningham:
Father Luke: Question to mull over for the both of you:

If you could give up fame, just write for writing sake, give up the
blog, give up every bit of notoriety, give up the internet, would that
appeal to you?

I guess my answer is that I already do write for writing's sake. everything I produce is made out of a need to either communicate or mediate deep personal discoveries or truths or pain or emotional minutiae. poetry is an attempt, first of all, to sort out the life I'm living, the terror and joy of everyday life, experiences, politics, etc. the writing is a release from banality and the deadly chains of the traffic dulled, timeclock crushed, television zombified masses.

for me it has also been the best way to communicate and connect on a real level with other human beings (without having to actually meet them and talk to them which usually results in the dross and flotsam of our personalities getting in the way of that REAL connection which happens on a more metaphysical level, where another person is touched and moved in some way, and in return, I as a writer and human being am made more able to endure my own existence, knowing it is possible to transcend all of the bullshit and get at something real despite things like invented political divides or sad religious mythology, etc.).

as far as blogs and internet and all that, sure, it could go away and it wouldn't matter a bit. I prefer to write long thoughtful letters anyway, and that served/serves me well even now with a blog and email and so forth. that said, I do think it can all work together though, where the internet compliments the writing and furthers its purpose as ART if that's what it is, and that IS what it seeks to be in many cases, even as it works as confessional, telegram, communique from the dark void, etc.

but "fame" is a stupid stupid thing, and should be stricken from everyone's list of "things to strive for." it is useless and most certainly a poor definition/measure of artistic production or quality of work. just look at the "famous" in our culture and the vapidity most of them represent...

I'd scratch words into the ground with a stick. it's what I've always done for as long as I can remember. in fact, it's the only real consistent thing throughout the arc of my life that I've done. I sign it because I'm making a mark that says I was here, and this is what I'm leaving behind to rot and it was as honest as I could make it, and I hope I did it well.

Hosho McCreesh:
Father Luke: If you could give up fame, just write for writing sake, give up the
blog, give up every bit of notoriety, give up the internet, would that
appeal to you?

Well, I'm not famous so I can't hardly say anything about giving up something I don't have. I don't have a blog, & whatever internet presence I do have doesn't really amount to much. I can comfortably say that I will always write. Who knows if anyone will want to publish what I write...you never really know. The act of writing itself is already self-indulgent...& so writing just to stack up pages, for writing's sake...to me that seems fairly masturbatory. To write & write & hide it from the world...I don't know, doesn't seem right, it feels cowardly & lonely--like hiding your heart from the world. The fact that writing is a way for one human who has felt or seen or lived through something to explain it, to make sense of it, for another who sees something familiar in it...that's the point of art...it's co-conspiratorial, it's aiding & abetting one another, it's that connection through ink mashed onto pulp...so, without a reader, it seems, to me, an aborted attempt, it seems incomplete. You write a post-it note...about some mundane thing...but leave it for someone, for a reason. So to write poems, novel, stories, letters--for nothing & no one but ourselves seems selfish. Or scared. If I was the last man on earth, I would write...in the hopes of it someday being found, deciphered, & understood...something to both mark my being here & passing through this, while explaining it to some distant future others. I write to understand my experience, to hopefully make sense of the shifting phantasmagoria that unfolds before me in this illusion. I send my work to editors because I want to find, through the work, the common threads that binds us all--across languages, borders, governments, nations, economies...discover some deeper human truth, if possible. & that can't be done if the work isn't out there, slowly reaching people. As to technologies--etc....I suppose they are meant to be used as tools. & we should use them until there is something better. But we should also seriously question IF we need to newest, latest thing...if it actually does improve our lives. Most all the bright, shiny, new objects they sell these days complicate our lives, not make them more simple. Cell phones are a pretty inspired piece of technology & I think they should've been installed in the dash boards of ever new car made, to call for help when you need it. Instead, they're on everyone's hip, to trade largely pointless conversations, to ruin movies, & nice dinners, & the subtle peace of a quiet mind. My phone at home worked fine before any of these things: It rang; if I was home & felt like talking, I picked it up; if I wasn't home or didn't want to talk--I didn't pick it up or I unplugged it. If I was on the phone already, it gave the caller a busy signal. Add an answering machine & it was perfect. But they ruined all that with call waiting, call forwarding, caller ID, *69, automatic ring back...jezus christ on a crutch. I prefer real letters...but have grown lazy in my easy American lifestyle & rely fairly heavily on email. In fact, I think I've come to prefer it to talking on the phone. So I'd miss email. Google. Dictionary.com. But having spent a month in a chalet in the Swiss Alps, where the phone rang 2 or 3 times & where I had 2 maybe 3 conversations I didn't want to...with only old Rachmaninov & Vivaldi albums, with only Leave of Grass, with only my typer & some paintings...I know I can be pretty damn happy like that...so anything else is a pleasant surprise.

chris cunningham:
padre;

you asked a good question last time. here's some for you:

what is the your definition of "success" as a writer? how does giving it all (or most, as you do on your blawg) away for free benefit you? would you give up the internets? can you see a way for anyone to sell books in a world that almost expects shit to be available for free online all the time? what do you hope to accomplish in your writing APART from personal expression and satisfaction at a job well done?

Father Luke:
what is the your definition of "success" as a writer?

Doing the thing I love doing. In that regard, I am a success. I've
achieved that. As I continue writing, I further that experience.

I'm happy looking back and seeing my growth as a writer, and I have a
wry smile because I know I'm not done growing. But Li Po, drunkenly
setting his poems on fire, and sailing them down the creek, laughing
his ass off, I can relate.

There was an old guy who lived in the hotel I lived in in Santa Cruz.
He self-published his own books by going to the print shop and
xeroxing off the pages and then putting them together. He printed up
about 500 of them at a time, and it cost him about a dollar a book. He
must've had 25 books. He came out with about one a year. And he
painted. He had four covers for the New Yorker to his credit. When I
told him that I had lit my favorite poems on fire and crumpled them up
and tossed the ashes into the air like hands full of black pepper he
laughed, and laughed. He got it.

We create out of nothing. It's here - wherever here is. And then We
die. So destroying it is the greatest joke in the world. It's like the
end of The Life of Brian where Monty Python is singing: "We come from
nothing we go back to nothing. Cheer up! Give a smile!"

Of course I must say I plan on living forever. So, there's that.

how does giving it all (or most, as you do on your blawg)
away for free benefit you?

I don't consider what I do blawging. Blawging invites comments. I have
a blog at dot org, but dot calm is for me. Pure and simple, it's for
me. I write, usually before I go to bed at night. And I look at it,
once done, and I go. . . ahh. Then I pull my sleeping bag around me
and fall asleep. I rarely dream, by the way. Well, for the purists who
will say - - "But yes you do, Father Luke! You just don't remember
them!" - - then let me say that when I do dream? When I do have dreams
I remember? They come true within 24 hours. this started happening in
1989.

I used to invite comments on my website, over at F a t h e r L u k e
.com, but I had a stalker once. She ended up phoning my family, and
bothering my friends. And I thought about the comments people were
making about my poetry:

Nice!
Good one!
Hey turd! Keep your day job!

And none of them really seemed appropriate. Good, and bad, I don't
think much of what people say about me.

would you give up the internets?

Slowly I have been doing just that. I get the email letters about the
ping-pong from you guys in the email, and frantic emails from Jenifer
about shit happening at Mary, or whatever, but that's it. And Jenifer
knows she can call me. Which I much prefer.

I don't look at the inntertubes as a wicked force to be tamed, though.
I look at it as a helpful friend, or a tool, like a bird dog, or a
knife and a fork, assisting me. It's like the old saying: It's not
money that's evil, it's the love of money. That's the actual
admonition, btw.

can you see a way for anyone to sell books in a world
that almost expects shit to be available for free online all the time?

It's about communication, isn't it? I mean sales, in essence, are
about communication:

I have this idea I think is valuable that I would like to exchange
with you for something you feel is of value. Can we agree?

I can honestly boast about the most complete collection of chris
cunningham of anyone I know. I'm still not sure how I came to deserve
it. Which speaks to the free online aspect.

If you look at the history the printed word, chap books, and of books,
it is an interesting journey.

Chaps were, essentially, a way for poets to make a little bread from
town to town. They had that collection of their work they printed up
and offered for sale like we see comedians doing at comedy shows. Here
is my presentation, and I will be selling cd's in the lobby. . . etc.
The only thing that's changed about all of this is that we now include
the interweb. I'm okay with that.

In other words, I see the internet more as a tool of communication,
rather than the communication itself. Some of bukowki's funniest pomes
is him on the phone. I get that he didn't like the phone too much.

Then too, how many famous people have others write their MySpace,
Facebook, and twitters for them. I can't imagine The President can
honestly keep up with all the friend requests on Facebook, or MySpace,
as an example, and I'm sure there are others. So someone is writing
that shit. I used to do that for a guy. Manage his myspace page for
him because he was busy off doing things.

And that's what I see. If I were to drop by, and knock on your door to
stop by to chat for a spell, would you have me look at your MySpace
page, and at all the latest YouTube videos? Or would we chat, scratch
the hounds, and watch a sunset together over a cupp'a hot something?

So, to answer your question directly, I will use the interweb to keep
giving my stuff away, sell when the spirit moves me. And I would like
to travel around and read my crap, and sell my books in person. When
it's all said and done, then I get to go home to my girl friend and
smile. I watched Bukowski at his readings on dvd. You could tell it
was a pain in the balls for him. Just another job. You're a writer,
you know that it can be just another job, too. I'm in school now. My
goal is to teach adults how to write. I want to be an educator. But
I'll always write. If I didn't I'd probably get all cranky, and like
that.

what do you hope to accomplish in your writing APART from
personal expression and satisfaction at a job well done?

Really that's it. I got chills. You nailed it. But as far as ambition?
I'd like to see one of the big assholes publish one of my books. It
would be great to have a small press poet integrated into the big
scene, and I think that with a foot in the door, it would help shine a
light on the small press. Color me naive. I did the same thing when I
was a Priest. I was destroying from the inside. It's a lot easier that
way.

Questions for the both of you:

Do you like reading your stuff in public?
( I don't - and I only have once)

Ambitions in writing. Talk about some of your hopes. . .

Hosho McCreesh:
Do you like reading your stuff in public?
( I don't - and I only have once)
I am not interested in public readings. The times I've read my work, it's been into a microphone with no one around...that, to me, feels honest. I don't want an exchange with a crowd, I don't want them to feel compelled to clap or sigh or laugh or whatever...I think poetry is a written artform, & even reading my work cheats the listener out of reading for themselves, & imagining how I might sound, how I might read, where I'd pause, etc. I have never done a public reading & am not looking to. I do think, however, that owe my publishers--for believing in my work & for putting their money where their mouth is. & that crosses me up because I want to help them sell books, what to give them my best effort...but I also want to guard my heart, & be myself...and so I'm stuck at this crossroads. Thankfully, I've not yet had to make the decision. Maybe someday I'll do a reading...& maybe it'll even go well & I'll feel differently about it. I don't know. But right now it doesn't feel necessary...as I have a small but very loyal group of people who buy my work...& they are scattered all over the globe! It also does feel like me...it doesn't feel true...it feels very much tied to ugly ego stroking & self-love kinds of trappings...& I am not interested in that. I'm working hard to divorce myself emotionally from my work--& by that I mean, finding all the distance I need to be completely honest in it...to just tell the truth in it, let it simply be what it is. To me, that's the only way the work has a chance...the only way it's not filled with falsehood & preening & the desperate need to hide or convince ourselves of things. That's the quality that all my favorite writers possess: they are fearlessly honest & completely themselves in their work. I really admire that.

Ambitions in writing. Talk about some of your hopes. . .

I'd like to write a novel as good as ASK THE DUST someday. I'd like to write a book that says all the things I'd like to say, & says them as well as I can say them. I'd like to, at the end of my life, look back & see my own story in every poem, short story, & (someday) even novels. I enjoy films, & have written a few short things I like...so I'd like to write a keep writing short films, & maybe someday a feature or two. I also love painting & drawing, so I'd like to do things like Blake or Patchen did--books & art together... I love letterpress printing, & I poetry broadsides that can be framed...so I'd like keep making things like that--ephemera. Those are my ambitions. My hopes...really I think what I hope for most is for my work to be an accurate reflection of who I am. Much of my published work is often seen as angry, indignant, or full of rage...or too much sadness. To that I can only say that I don't set out to write like that...but that it's an accurate reflection of a certain part of myself. But let's remember when most of the work was written...2000 to 2008, by am American writer, who abjectly disagreed with the power structure at the helm. I am, however, a lot more easy going that my work would probably suggest...& I hope to one day see more of that side of myself in the work. I published what I'd call my first "funny" poem this year in Poiesis #2 from Propaganda Press...& it felt like a very accurate representation of not only New Year's Eve, this year, but of me, of my wonderful girlfriend, who puts up with me...an accurate picture of all of it. I was really happy with the poem, & it feels so much different than my other work in that it's more gentle, accepting. & it's funny--something I've never done in a poem before. Something I love to do more of, actually.

Padre: How do we reconcile ourselves with the people we dislike; with the things we don't agree with; with the things we don't want to do; with the sacrifices we have to make?

chris cunningham:
Do you like reading your stuff in public?
( I don't - and I only have once)

I've only read one poem in public and it was at my sister's wedding. it was a pretty good time, the wedding was at The Star Bar in Atlanta, attended by freaks and rock n' roll types and tattoos and piercings, etc. so the crowd was in high spirits and it went over well, but otherwise, no, never. I don't care for it. I don't want to do it. poetry is an exploration for me, a way IN to a place I can't get at in daily life, a meditation, a noisy freakish improvisational event played out in slow motion over a typewriter in the near darkness as dogs howl and lightning flashes over the trees and thru the sheets over the window panes...

the closest I've come really is reading into a microphone in a studio for the letters book, and I also read some poems while there. that's it. now, if someone wants to dump some money in my lap I'll come read anything they like. I will hustle for art.

Ambitions in writing. Talk about some of your hopes. . .

I'd like people to read more deeply, and pay more attention to their lives and in so doing, find that common ground I try to dig up in my poetry and writing. I'd like to see more handcrafted works of art in the small press rather than the usual fold and staple, and I see it happening more and more, as it's something you can't get for free ONLINE. I'd like to finish this book called BIRDS which will be poems and paintings in a limited edition hardback, letterpressed, and original watercolors tipped into each; I'd like to finish my first novel THIS DOG'S NAME IS BULLET and my second novel NIGHT JOB (both together cover the last twenty years of my life for the most part); I'd like to finish a book of poems about my girl cynthia, just for me; I'd like to see a Collected Poems covering the last ten years comprehensively as I never published the same poem twice (unless it was once in a mag and once in a chap) and have stuff in many many long gone print mags from 2000 forwards; I'd like to hang in long enough to feel like I've left behind a body of work that I can say is ME, and my life with my dogs and my girl, and is TRUE and HONEST and has something to say to the next freak like me who comes along and thinks, "now how the fuck am I gonna make it in this motherfucking shitty world?"

hopefully they can say, "well, if this asshole can manage it, I sure as hell can..."

oh, and you might have the second most complete cunningham collection, as I'm almost certain hosh has the most complete, and might have stuff even I don't have here in The Vault.

heh. now let's see some bidding on the ephemera people!

Father Luke:

Second most complete collection, okay. We'll measure dicks sometime to
sort it all out, but between the two of us, Hosho and I, you're
covered, cap'n.

Hosho asked. . .
Padre: How do we reconcile ourselves with the people we dislike; with
the things we don't agree with; with the things we don't want to do;
with the sacrifices we have to make?

First off I find it harder to reconcile myself to the people who like
what I do. F'rinstance when the cap'n here said that he'd tell me what
other people saw in my writing - honesty - and then went on to wax
poetic about the value of my writing. It was all over for me there.

You see people who understand what I'm all about, and what I am
writing, make me powerless. I have nothing for them but a smile, for
they too are celebrating, and I need do nothing. Those are the hard
ones.

As to my detractors? The hate mail I get? The incessant bill
collectors, the Father Luke haters, and assorted low lifes, and scum
that are ever seeking to discredit me and my life? The people who want
to find where I live so that they may come over and kill me (there are
several of those). All I can say is that if they'll wait for me to get
my shoes on, I'll have a go at helping you.

You see, there is no one in my life who has ever come close to saying
the bad things about me that I tell myself. And I know my tender
spots.

There is a great scene in one of the Bukowski dvd's. He's doing a
reading and he turns and discusses with them about them being Bukowski
Haters, and could they allow for the others who are not here to hate
him. It's a very telling moment. He knows he's not for everyone, and
allows for that. I mean, it's very tender, and entirely human. Not
everyone is going to like us.

So if you are asking how do I allow for the Father Luke haters, I
generally tend to make them my friends. Although it has been on
occasion that my friends become haters. But that's not my
responsibility at that point. When they change from being my friend
into a hater, then I have to let them go, because there is a long line
ahead of them, and they will just have to wait their turn.

I don't eat meat, but I clean the dishes of those who do, and I'm okay
with it, you know?

I'm guessing we have wildly different tastes in music. I just obtained
a copy of Heartworn Highways - it's about Townes Van Zandt. I guess
you could call it alt-americana - people like Uncle Tupelo, The
Pawtuckets (mississippi parking lot in particular), Dolly Ranchers,
and a host of other no-name heroes I will always adore. Any shout
out's to your peeps in the music fields? In other words who do you
guys turn to for music when you cozy up to the one you love and say:
Honey let's look in one another's eyes and be together tonight. . . so
to speak. What music do you like?

chris cunningham:
We'll measure dicks sometime to
sort it all out,

heh, I don't need to see any results from the contest though..

of course, I appreciate the sentiment more than I can say, and I hope I didn't belittle it with my silly little email toss off. the fact that someone cares enough to accumulate my words is ... humbling and magical and fills me with hope and makes it possible to go on many days.

I offer sincere thanks, and also, a tiny dick that cannot compete in your mighty contest, gents...

Hosho McCreesh:
Padre,

I appreciate the advice in re: haters. I will think long on it. There are a few things I understood stright off, others I'll have to mull...so thanks.

Any shout out's to your peeps in the music fields? In other words who do you guys turn to for music when you cozy up to the one you love and say: Honey let's look in one another's eyes and be together tonight. . . so to speak. What music do you like?

I don't know anyone in music, or in bands...& I wouldn't say I'm involved in the underground music scene, or knowing about bands before everyone else or whatever... I do enjoy all kinds of different music though. The bulk of my music is jazz, & blues. But I love classical music, all kinds of rock (for different reasons), I like some old country music, some old gospel standards, I like some R&B, some rap--anything that makes me happy, sad, angry, brash...all kinds of music. I guess I don't know enough about the subtle differences in kinds of music to accurately articulate what my favorite kinds are. Like they say...I don't know music, but I know what I like.

Father Luke:
Yeah. That's all I meant. What kind of music do you like.

10-4 0n the mulling it over.

Looking back on your question, I only answered part of it.

I would say that the prices we pay for the things we want are
generally worth it.

If I want to get a degree and teach, I need to go to school instead of
playing poker on the internets.

If I want to publish, and get my name out there, I need to do a lot of
writing, submit, and not bitch about how hard it is to do tech stuff
at Mary. Or, at least do both. Wink

If I want to have the things I want in life I have to work for them.
I'm okay with that.

So, sacrifices are not so bad. They are common. I don't think they ever end.

Question to the both of you:

How has the new book: Sunlight at Midnight, Darkness at Noon: The Cunningham/Mccreesh Letters, 2002 been received by folks you have heard from? I
realize it hasn't been sent to your customers yet, but what has the
response been? What have the responses been for you two?

Hosho McCreesh:
I think the response has been pretty good so far--with the hardbacks selling on mainly on speculation...as so little of the book has actually been seen (or heard) yet. I do know some samples were sent around to people we consider small press luminaries in search of the almighty blurb...& while I've not yet read the most of them, I do have a vague notion that the responses have been good. As far as my own response--it's been a strange journey for me. This book is as wide-open as I've ever been--the writing as pure as I've ever written...which is a little uncomfortable. Growing pains, i guess. Looking back through the manuscript I was, at times, embarrassed, at times shocked, sometimes indignant, sometime proud...but I've remained, strangely, moved by the book as a whole. I believe very much in this book, and the ambitious things it tries to accomplish. Chris & I have discussed the matter many times--as we both feel a pretty odd putting out letters, as if we're somebody... I mean, honestly, who do we think we are? But every time I thought that, I simply went back to the text, went back & tried to look at it with an even harder eye...& every time I was been pulled back into it. I've read almost everything Chris has published, & a fair amount of things he has yet to publish...& as much as I admire his work, his letters are quite different from the poems--in execution, though not in spirit. They are remarkable things & I'm sure anyone who has ever received a cover letter with a submission knows of which I speak. Where Chris' poetry is so steeped in dark, sparse, & mysterious metaphors--his letters are rich, switchblade-quick, & brutally cut to the meat of things. To read each one when I originally found it in the box was truly amazing. & I think the energy of these letters is a cyclical, a building kind of energy, built it's own momentum as we sorted our way through the craft & necessity of poetry, talked politics, & American culture...while also becoming friends. So I just kept coming back to the words. the sentences & when I doubted the wisdom of this project, when I thought "who cares what we think," I'd read it again. & I slowly came to realize that it really doesn't matter that we said these things...in fact, it's better that we are nobodies! Being 2 nobodies, I think people will be less inclined to worry about who said it, & concentrate, instead, on what is being said. Because when I look at the book as simply a honest record of two small press American poets struggling with life at the jump of the 21st century, it's the ideas, the narrative unfolding, the stunning predictions, & the more human side of the underdog story that all make the book worth reading. I love this book...& I have been, all the while, afraid to publish it. I can only hope that readers respond to it like I did & still do. if that happens--I'll be very humbled & proud too. If not, I suppose I'll be a self-important small press twit...another dime-a-dozen type, enamored of the stink of his own filth! Haha!

chris cunningham - Hosho McCreesh vs Father Luke - May 2009 ping pong

chris cunningham:
what hosh said.

music?

yes, please. miles davis, willie nelson, calexco, noot d'noot, grateful dead, phish, los lobos, bill monroe, fela kuti, many many many many. I could go on endlessly about how much it means and how important it is, but I won't. it is though. it makes the poetry possible for me, frankly.

Father Luke:
When I was homeless, I wandered the streets of suburban america, and
through windows facing the streets, I saw families sitting down to
dinner, and doing homework, washing dishes, watching television, and I
wanted that. I wanted family.

I've identified myself as a loner, but I enjoy people. Just not for
long. I like being a part of, and not the whole thing.

Is family important to you? Community? How about friends?

chris cunningham:
I don't care for people generally, and can count the number of people I consider "friend" on one and a half hands. I have lots of compatriots, folks I know, folks I like and can have a drink with, play some cards, etc., but friend for me is a big word that encompasses a lot of shit most people don't want to deal with...

I find most humans in the larger fractal to be distasteful while on a more personal scale to be generally decent and well meaning, if not still ignorant and apathetic and work/television dulled...again, I prefer my quiet solitude with cyn and the dogs. I love my blood family as well as my other family, which is cynthia and my dogs; we've been together for almost twenty years...

Father Luke:
I have been writing for a long time. I study grammar,and style and
craft like musicians study chords, notes, and scales. I love words. I
love the way sentences are put together. I love the different voices I
hear in all the different writers. Doctor Hunter S. Thompson is
different that Hemingway, is different from Faulkner, is different
from Bukowski. . .

How did you learn your craft?
How do you polish your craft?
What do you do to grow as writers?

chris cunningham:
How did you learn your craft?

formal education including graduation from high school and five on/off years at the Univ. of Ga where I spent all my time playing my guitar in various rock bands and trying to NOT be in the business school. I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams at that, I tell ya. as for the actual craft of writing, I learned it from Miles Davis, TS Eliot, John Fante, Jerry Garcia/Robert Hunter, living on Old National Highway (as mentioned in the Outkast song "ATLiens"), and working at crappy jobs that I tried to do as well as possible. also traveling around the country a few times helped a lot...

How do you polish your craft?

I read a lot of what's in the small press (or as much as I can stand, there's way too much of the same voice out there these days, and not enough metaphor based work, not as many interesting images, too much prose and surface bukowski while avoiding the depth of feeling and compassion and perception that Buk had in his best work), and I read news and tons of information about the workings of the world on a nuts/bolts level. read read read, and then write write write. that's the only way to shine it up nice. also, here's a tip: discard the first three ways you are thinking about saying something because someone's already thought of that. use the fourth or the fifth, but stick with the core root of that initial thought, the thrust of it, the IMAGE or IDEA as a thing fixed in the mind, then don't describe it until you've looked at it from several angles and different sides and discarded most of the ways of doing so. then spill it onto the page as fast as possible. then don't look back, but write something else. kind of like first thought best thought, but that's not accurate, as that first thought often is a cliche or something overheard or read in another place and incorporated into memory as something original. you take the first thought and sculpt it in the MIND rather than on the page. or at least, that's how I do it. it's like taking a musical theme, a short sketch and then expanding and improvising upon it with your musical instrument, the typewriter.

What do you do to grow as writers?

live one more day among these humans, and try to sort it out anew, with compassion and clarity and a way of saying it with some measure of style and electricity and blood. and don't look back, often closing a door on past work and facing the future with a clean page and nothing to lean back on other than wits, strong black coffee and the howling night of train horns and dogs barking and no moon anywhere.

(continued) . . .