A.J. Kaufmann

From young punk to small press poet to recording artist

2012-02-26T12:21:00.001-08:00

On this Sunday evening it occurs to me that my journey was really long and it led me and my art (yes, let's call it "art") to many interesting places abroad, but that I haven't paid enough attention to local business (and that I will fix soon enough with new New Polish Beat publications, still in English, but tailored for the Polish market...). Those who ordered "Vagabond Vacancy" from Kendra Steiner Editions back when it was available (or second-hand, if lucky...) will know what kind of a long journey I'm talking about. "VV" is basically a collection of unused (i.e. never set to music) punk lyrics written back when I was 13, altered a bit and properly edited in late 2009. Now, the fact that they got published by a respected D.I.Y. press in the USA means that either I was an unrecognized glue-sniffing genius at age 13, or that American small press audiences and publishers are more forward-thinking as compared to their European counterparts - or, simply, that nobody treated a 13y/o punk seriously in his own backyard and you normally don't look for "genius" in post-communistic high-rise blocks. Anyway, "Vagabond Vacancy" has it all and I'm proud of this chapbook - the title is a reference to my debut, "Siva in Rags", the poems are indeed "terse, bitter, jagged, blurred", and I really used to love Flipper, Wire, Pere Ubu, Alternative TV and The Germs back in the days. A friend overseas even told me that the poems from "VV" reminded her the style of a certain Kurt. To be honest, it was probably Nirvana, Swans and Sex Pistols, not the bands listed above that shaped the "VV" texts, as they are a much more likely choice of inspiration for a kid in Poland at that time (price and access to cassettes, records and CDs - I remember buying a Swans compilation on tape for 5 zloty) - Flipper and Pere Ubu were more for the older "elites", and our Polish punks had a lot of beautiful punk music from Poland to choose from, so we listened to that too. Anyway, as I quickly get bored by doing "scheduled" things, even when blogging, perhaps I should share some "VV"-era poems, notes, lyrics, odds and ends, instead of focusing on "East-West Train" which I should do now if I were to blog chronologically? I think sharing "Vagabond Vacancy" material here could make an interesting trip for any reader. Then again, I might decide to republish "VV" via New Polish Beat in the future, so perhaps it's best to leave the poems hanging in the air a bit longer, getting better with age, not covered with dust on some bookshelf. And while I'm preparing for the Tuesday sessions I'm thinking to myself that those punk days and small press poet days were cool, but I wouldn't want to return to them now, being where I am - it's like in that "Hard Times" song by KISS (from an album I absolutely love - DYNASTY!), really... it wasn't pretty, but I always had my dreams and was lucky enough to keep them, though a lot of things I couldn't - notebooks, magazines, books, LPs, memorabilia... but let's forget material things - they never matter in the end... here's one poem straight from "Vagabond Vacancy" I want to share today (first published online at The Calliope Nerve Weblog, Friday, April 9, 2010):

Glimmers

glimmers in your hemp eye void
a putrid hand, a swollen hole
to lick the gun
to leave the world
her breath
makes me whole
we sit & the room disappears
it’s only void
it’s only trees
your hemp eye sings
it sounds like heaven
to me
the way I’m meant to be
in idiocy

"From the Banks of River Spree"

2012-02-24T03:40:00.002-08:00

"Second Hand Man" can now be ordered quite cheaply on CD and vinyl (gatefold cover) at Lynx Music online store. My new chapbook, "From the Banks of River Spree", with amazing cover art by Justin Jackley will be available soon from New Polish Beat. The work on my second album moves forward rather slowly, but I think pretty soon some new tunes will surface online - nobody's in a hurry though, and there's still some things around "Second Hand Man" that need to be done - a professional (or at least half-professional) video for one of the songs is just one of those things... As to the second album, in terms of material, I'm glad I got back to all the street-folk songs - curious how will they sound in the studio, not sung shakily, on a single guitar, echoed by tenement walls and witnessed only by anonymous passersby throwing some change into your dusty guitar case. Off to work now and thanks to all the friends who decided to follow and visit this blog, I hope you enjoyed at least one of the "Siva in Rags"-related poems I posted, it always means much,
A.J.

Second album, "Just for Love" and a brand new chapbook...

2012-02-16T12:28:00.000-08:00

On Monday I'll be in the recording studio for the second session for my second album. During the first brief (2 hours) session last Monday I recorded raw vocal/acoustic guitar demos for two songs - songs familiar to the few people who caught me live on the streets of Berlin, but new to the rest of the world. I'm also working on "Diva" which was left off of "Second Hand Man" - I think I have the definitive vocal melody captured, but this still needs more work and polishing - the backing track is perfect though and it has a cabaret feeling all the way through - not sure however if I'll use it on the album. "Second Hand Man" is currently being sold and promoted in Poland, and "Just for Love" is getting some airplay in Radio Merkury - a great local station that plays lots of good music incl. Lou Reed, The Smashing Pumpkins, Starship etc... so it's a nice company to be in. Here's the link where you can listen to "Just for Love" online and leave your thoughts on the song: http://radiomerkury.pl/audycja/muzyczne-hity/a-j-kaufmann-just-for-love.html. I'm really excited about doing my second album and music fills up all of my time - I'm rarely writing and when I do it's prose in my native language, nothing special. I have a new online chapbook upcoming from the wonderful Books on Blog, and it will close the Berlin chapter for good in terms of work published online, as it includes pretty rare and previously unseen poems from that era. That's all for now,
A.J.

The "Siva" adventure is over

2012-02-11T05:06:00.000-08:00

I guess I did my job well and using all the right (and wrong) sources, I managed to republish everything from the "Siva in Rags" era on this blog, except the "Siva in Rags" chapbook itself - there are plans to re-release it via New Polish Beat, and some of the poems can be easily found online at Crisis Chronicles Online Library. On Monday I'll be in the studio, recording guitars and vocals for the first new track, which means I'm finally starting to work on my second album. I have both real and quite utopian plans for 2012/2013 so I won't say anything before something (a chapbook, a record) is actually ready and released. What I can say is that I have an online chapbook upcoming on Books on Blog. Some people might not consider this a "real" chapbook, but what's "real" anyway? So browse around this blog for your fix of A.J. Kaufmann poetry and check out this page for a list of all the "Siva"-related poems I shared here.
A.J.

Print publications

2012-02-09T03:03:00.000-08:00

My adventure with print publications in 2008 was short-lived and rather pleasant, but back then I preferred sending submissions to online mags and zines - so it's no surprise I didn't get published much in print in the "Siva in Rags" era - I figured out I'll simply put all the print poems here in one post. Fissure Issue #3 (Gail Gray's professionally looking, well edited, ambitious mag) includes "Oh the rainbows!", one of my first "real" poems. Peep Issue #7 July 1, 2008 (Delphine Bedient's beautiful hand-made zine, bound with a sewing machine - unfortunately I lost my contributor's copy, probably in one of the Polish bars I frequented back in 2010) includes "The Amsterdam Palace of Wisdom". Ted Ate America Summer 08 (a great zine edited and illustrated by Ray Swaney, with a nostalgic D.I.Y./xerox feel to it) includes two parts of "The Moon as a Talker", untitled. Before I moved to Berlin / in transit I also had pieces published in Fissure Issue #4 and The Gut September 2008, but these will be discussed when the right time comes. Here are the poems from Fissure #3, Peep #7 and Ted Ate America in their original edits:

Oh the rainbows!

Yowling and howling down the bowling crumbling
staircase of indecision
got that yesterday afternoon
feeling...
still remembering August fiestas
under grilled sunlights of Avalon
pearls...

but that was a cat's paw memoir...

being reality's ashcan

Howling and yowling down the kitchen's
flimsiness

still believing that another shaving
will punctuate my brain's cliche
and make it work...

now to the bathroom

admiring women only these days
and their solitary velvet nostalgias
w/ overburnt fingertips
giving come-hither looks
crawl-nearer smiles...

avoiding fuck-ups
concentrating on my mantra
and butter

watching the window creak
hearing my bread cry...

why is the whirlwind still young
and the dog barking willing
yowling and howling
shaving the beard he's been growing
for rainbows

The Amsterdam Palace of Wisdom

the Amsterdam Palace of Wisdom
consists of
9425 oneway windows
4242 madhatters
6321 doors smashed in
post-orgasmic
fury
one for the Lady of Sorrow
45253 tiny Venices
90 islands
1500 bridges
& counting

sailors move in for the liquor
sailor move out for the flood
while the young blue Pole
remains
to die here
to leave
it

6500 guests at De Wallen daily
one per square meter
pleasure
rally

3463 tired sex workers
10 for one tired guest

6443643 cigarettes smoked
35232 bottles drained

lips encountered
arms explored

751251 inhabitants
242522 souls
the rest are skulls of fishermen
married to
cannabis
resolute
sea

to get lost here is really a pleasure
to get lost here is
finding
true wisdom
the Kilometre
Zero

&
slip into
cores of
growth
without any further
statistics
of notice

THE MOON AS A TALKER: Excerpt one

the interplanetary crumble begins
bars & bordellos wide
open
Earth's dinner is ready
Old Market's filled w/
word whore
volunteers
alien visitors
sniffin' for fresh
meat
sanctuary scenery keepers
whistlers of pre-war blues
gunmen editors
& goofballs
queers & transvestite
lovers
longtime opiate admirers

"Calita, I must be mad...
off the rocket completely, dear
you tell me I'm sane...you loosen
them chains..."
she says:
"I love it when you whisper
dirty spanish
words.
I love it when you write down
my period. I love reading
dictionaries w/ you..."
sips her Quick Death
drink
entertains the cock
"god, I suppose I'm now
tangled
completely..."

Calita keeps selling her ass
while I keep selling
cheap record reviews
writing poor
swing tunes
for B-class barbrawlers
for movies never
directed & such

guess it's time for a change
for worse
at my
best...
or else, Calita, I'm finished...

THE MOON AS A TALKER: Excerpt two

Gina's like swiss cheese Mediterranean Sea
I'm goddamn subterranean rat river
Cracov's the goddamn delta
we all
one day
meet
here

like a graveyard, only better
like a movie
only live

here boxers&sandals confront golden dresses
white lace tops
& brocade ties
blonde on blonde
mind on mind
object
on
object

I consume the goddamn cheese
& then I get
exterminated

brocade ties & golden dresses
remain

white lace tops
now stained w/ ratblood
ratshit
ratover
swarmed w/
accidental
johnnie walkers
swim in this delta's
black muddy
waters

where river meets sea
all's so
naturally
perfect
at instant...

Another "lost one"

2012-02-03T03:15:00.000-08:00

The poem that follows was originally published in Dogzplot, my guess on the date is sometime in June 2008. Unfortunately my e-mail correspondence with Jamie Jones doesn't reveal the exact date when the journal's issue with my poem in it appeared online. It does however reveal that the poem was shortened and only the first section made it into the issue. So here's the original Sunday, May 18, 2008 edit of the poem:

Blank Awakening

When I awake
I firstly choose
one blank piece
of paper
one Tarot cardset
one piece of musical notation
possibly russian streetsongs
carefully rolleying them
putting my fingers
in exploratory action
invading my bone-mandala
with pretty morning serenade
sunsets avoidable

Trapped in vinyl death lark

2012-01-29T02:00:00.000-08:00

The poem that follows was originally published in Instant Pussy Numero Tres (PDF, print) on July 9, 2008. The submission was sent on Friday, May 30, 2008 and I received an acceptance mail from Misti Rainwater-Lites the very same day, unusually fast for such an unusual poem, later included in "I'm Already Not Here" (Shadow Archer Press, 2009). Here it is in the original 2008 edit:

A conversation w/ Jacques Brel's ghost

had a conversation w/ Brel's ghost last night
strangely
sun still up
& tripled
blurred as a warning
obsolete
shimmering
while the moon placed firmly
in Brel's fur coat
pocket

his long hair resounding
reverberating the cloudshield
exploring all there is
to explore
speakin' only in wind's
haunting
deep
vowels

He lit a cigarette. Came closer.
Flew by & sat right next to the chimney
relaxed on the
armchair

put one of Piaf's plates on
trapped in vinyl
death lark

he told me:
"boy, you quit these sentiments...
lullabyes & ballads are over
quit them black keys
quit all notation
listen to me & you're
settled..."
said I should visit
the "Blue Butterfly"
where ladies in black
leather
await the next
Dean
& pour out their mantras
all nite
all dirty

"I'll lend you my voice You sing them the stars
out w/ cancerous throat. You make
them all wet. They'll love the challenge.
They'll take it... they have no
choice but to give birth
to things...they have no choice but to
bear our sons..."

almost sucked the cigarette
dry
took hold of my verse
strangled it
whipped my eyes w/ it
life-juices spilled over
blood followed
shortly
"now this here you cannot sing'em...
now this here ain't metal&velvet...
this here ain't even a
real
song..."
licked'em off the floor...
cold concrete left
shinin'
I cold & amazed
& he howled

howled...
howled...
howled...

stopped abruptly
yet the music
continued
the room still
resonating &
hallowed

I realized he's signing
the Endless Death Hymn
in 23
tableaus

he smiled - he could tell by my eyes...

"Start up the bike, boy"
he gasped out w/ his
operational
lung
"You bring me my son back...
I will wait for you
in bar's filthy
fuckin'
mirror..."

First of the "lost ones"

2012-01-26T05:03:00.000-08:00

The poem that follows was first published in Skitzo Lit on July 1, 2008. That is few days past the "Siva in Rags" release date, but the poem was written in May, became a part of the "32 Poems from the Road" manuscript, and the submission to Skitzo Lit was sent on Thursday, May 29, 2008. That pretty much makes it a "Siva in Rags"-era poem. Here it is, in the original 2008 edit taken from the submission e-mail:

Analysis for Calita

The human face's a gasping death spare
waiting room
fried-egg's galaxy center
blank canvas
for
further
connections
or the loss
of it all
spiked internally
down

the human face's a formless killer
revelator
midnight rain manifest
vulture
feast
the black puppets march
through the reddened eye
thickest
peripherial
manoeuvres

the human's face a bottomless pit
resulting in a
death abyss
dive-in:
the haggard futureless
substance
flickers
gritty
suburban
tangos

the human's face all substance
absence
fine
molecular
illusion

& by staring deeply into your eyes
I've seen my death
in all
variations
possible

& variety's the spice
of life

Merde

2012-01-22T04:36:00.000-08:00

"Merde" was first published in the June/July 2008 issue of Unquiet Desperation (PDF). Later it was included in "Broke Nuptial Minds" (Virgogray Press, 2009). Here's the original UD edit:

Merde

kitsch aboriginal supermarket masks
kitsch gasstation african drums
webbed in bubblegum white sitars
toyflutes coming straight from Kathmandu
Manufactury inc.
bearing all those petit faults of being
really made
in Tibet-strangling China
halls

newspapers in new poorsick languages
of the doublethroated propaganda pigs
pseudodutch beer cheaper than
a box of matches sold in sixpacks
from under the dirtbag counter
Gravity's Rainbow groupwork amalgamate
given away for free
at the supermarket gig of resurrected
Jambalaya Williams android
hindu love god pearls imitation
vibrators
bluescovers on tapes by less-than-able
polish white seriously lost boys
who bought their hungarian guitars
at the price of one apple
somewhere in Prague
while chasing her bridging werewolves

that's what we've come to
after thousands of years
of mindblock
corrosiviely wondrous
as this global value of art
becomes more and more dreary
Leary
mumbojumbos
despite all these
utopian new villages
charms
& freedoms

Checking in to the underworld Ritz

2012-01-18T03:03:00.000-08:00

The two poems that follow were first published in a PDF journal called Origami Condom (Ultra Poetry - Intellectual Lubricant). I've sent my submission on Wednesday, May 7, 2008 and received acceptance e-mail on Monday, May 26, 2008. My poems made it into issue #9 of the journal, which appeared online on Friday, June 27, 2008. Here's "For pagoda lady" and "Dead one" in their original 2008 edits:

For pagoda lady

Soft and sullen ikebanas for the drenched in sun
pagoda lady

at the bottom of the well
sits her reflection
and looks up to the mirrored sky
interminable
like distant cherry breezes
everly admired...

stepping lightly on emperor's garlands
of dragon sketches
ashes

giving birth to worlds countless
incredible
in tune
with white ink

can you jump into the well w/ your sandals
on fire...

can you count the ashes
of your former reflections
former mirrored skies
and japanese postcards...

Dead one

This here Kaufmann is a dead one
already feeding on his own corpse
50 years from now on
already observing the flesh
abandon its bone arcades
already sucking his eyes out
spiced with pepper
& crowned with olives:
now snails
of higher tasteforms...
this here Kaufmann is beer obnoxious
standing in a thunderbolt
tequila
drinking straight from the shower
standing in front of a word gun

already watching his dead dick dance
w/ worms
of fatal forgiveness
stiffer
salsa

death's orgasm's death...
this Kaufmann likes extremities

this here Kaufmann's
a frozen frame already
motion picture dead rat
50 years from now
checking in to the underworld Ritz
champagne and caviar included
poised and ready for bald ladies
of Charon
messing w/ fat cats on valium

how strange for the now-Kaufmann
to look at the dead one
and wonder:

how micesized are the life-important
dominoes of breath
the traps of coming and leaving...

so the now-Kaufmann sighs
and waits for no-one...

An odd mix of European references and Americana beatesque flow

2012-01-13T03:25:00.000-08:00

These poems were first published in Gloom Cupboard along with an interview on Friday, June 13, 2008 in the journal's Out of the Cupboard series - all of them were originally part of the "Bum Seraphim" manuscript, except "How Gina sits" which was taken from the source "Siva" material, "32 Poems from the Road". "Under Berlin sky" and "2nd hand mentality" were later published in "I'm Already Not Here" (Shadow Archer Press, 2009). Here are all the poems (for the interview go to the original post at Gloom Cupboard) in their original 2008 edits:

Under Berlin sky

the Berlin sky is all set ablaze
w/ Fernsehenturm candles & vertigo
cafes
where districts roll by like swans
in search of black&white angels
in search of our good’ ole Nick
or some Cabaret
blazin’
revival
all footnotes
to heaven
& such...

weddings, funerals, orchestras...
shock rock guitars...
the whole avant-garde
in a single black dot
the hair-ties
& sunflower suits...

so the sky scans the crowds
on the lookout for patchy jackets
cheap worn-out stetsons
jeans & boots full of holes
or a field of sand to play in
to draw mandalas
& cease to wonder
to begin a life
at every shredded breath’s corner
or find yourself in a room
full of strangers like snakes
& ladders to Jacob’s
milkshake
dream
w/ one of your notebooks in hand
still empty...

get in line
for the casting:
One Second Assumption
A Lifetime of Sweat
& Repentance

perhaps Polanski’s cut out
to make such a killer
real...

under Berlin sky we’re bound to die
we’re bound to reflect the mirroring
skyslide
certainty
we’re bound to exist
on the U-bahn girl
single
handclap
the Irish songteller
D-flat
the red-bearded sailor’s
stormwatch tale
on dead ship-clouds
in night’s filthy bossom
or postcard
memoirs
or film noir
magicians
or Japanese tourist
hunters

gettin’ tired of them anything pushers
crammed in underpasses
like stillborn projections
of death in a second
the seventy-seven times cheaters
& theatre poster magic
all right at your feet from the whore’s
balustrade
where you’re standin’ like Lili
herself
smilin’
eatin’ the 5 mark tortilla
to get to the slut
in a minute or so

while the Fernsehenturm candles blaze on...
blaze on like their name was Suzanne
blaze on like the
gamblers
be angels
or Jesus atop of his tower
the caring resentment’s
groan

& the Fernsehenturm’s castin’ her shadows...
the cup has a hole in the bottom...
& Lili will never quite patch her fishnets
or the very cheap
leather
jacket...

& the districts roll on like swans
& the districts care
for noone

Bum seraphim

all praise the bum seraphim
all thirsty
for day’s glow
eternity

all filled w/ insanity garlands
roses tulips
& strawberry wine
stuffed w/ immaculate madcaps
& cheshire cat’s mountain
tops
ever rollin’ like Euphrates does
ever snowin’ like winter does
ever singin’ like the hummingbird
does
never & forever
on his kneaded yet suffering
devoided
Lhasa pilgrimage

crawlin’ like the ivy does
expandin’ like the cosmos does
dyin’ like the sunray does
brilliant
as dew drops
alive
as the stones
precise
as thunder

praisin’ life as life does
vanishin’ like the wind does
livin’ like the prairie does
fragmented
unified
hollow

all praise the day’s
glow
bum seraphim
odyssey

god’s fingers exploring so vividly
gently
his unborn yet
tomorrows

Skull mural mirror

so... they’ve got the mural of my skull
here
they allow me to stare
at it
sometime...
I’m recognizin’ those yellow
trails
of pillage
red streaks
of constraint
amazingly fractured
wisps
of self

maxilla
cheekbones
orbits:
the unchanging
points of
reference...

all since the time that fears me
& loathes
me
continues

the giant bone tree
stuck to the mirror
of
former
selves
&
dead leaves on coffee
do drown

vast as the sky over Andes
& very well written
on ice
sheets

whose fingers should I blame
whose fingers
promise
redress
& ain’t that already
rebirth
in a way...
ain’t that already
seconde
vue...

One minute long

one long minute ago
one of the
longest
in mind
the insufficient indifferent
footstep
shattered in the mire
residently
exploring
the gut placenta
sideways
while the clock didn’t move
at all
& the time was for all
but for
nova
explosion

while she sewed her sunglasses
way back
together
in memory of her drunken cricket
paramour
& roared out “Build me a woman”
& decided to swing back
the past
decided to swing past
the future
to steer me
away from my myth
& my
fate

put my cowboy boots on...
took the shotgun off the shelf...
realised...
shivered in laughter...

remembered the Moonlite Mile
Suite
seven years of daylight
counted her lives in fear
of returning
too early
& shot three times
a day

bit into
the cushion
fell down

& suddenly the room’s
mediocre walls
became
eerie dada
installments
& the gaslamp
a pale
gallery

as the portrait of an artist
as a splattered
liar
glowed

the coming-of-age
the going-off-style
off-rhythm
& into the
vegetable
existance

How Gina sits

she sits on a rockin’ chair
stormship
observing the ceiling
moth dance
the lightbulb anxiety
propaganda
the waves form her Persian
carpet
the wineglass
the bullets
remind her my reptile
halcyon days
golden years
antacid
drunkard
luxuries of oblivion
“my name is of no
importance”
she whispers
“my body’s no longer
of use”
she purrs
“for you I’m no longer
of use...”
& from my balcony wide
magnoliagilded
she notices
J.C.
passin’
in the autumn needle rain
kino
for all the kids
interested:
he comes in sepia
whipped & shaken
the polish
zloty
saviour

the clockwork
Kain
in anger...

I try to calm her
sing quiet illusory
lovesongs
quote Wilde
or paint her on my lilac
wall
right next to some cut-up
paintings
sketches of Spain
her child’s first attempts
in crayons

try to rescue the skeleton
corset
Gina
from fallin’ deeper & swifter
into gorgeous tiny
notepad
nursery rhyme
pieces
while smokin’ ten thousand
marlboros

nothing helps
as usual:
our Gina sees the light
only when she’s really
dyin’

the moths dance still
“how banal” I mutter
“how quick & painless...”
she flutters
falls for the moth king
eyes stop at the lightbulb’s
border
Gina burns
& gauges
away

she sure would like some
tecata
now

2nd hand mentality

There...
there is the pin
glory center
of my 2nd hand mentality
there is the reason
why I run through the cheapest shelf’s...
obscure book collecting
fueled by fire Nijinsky idiot
bringing home
all the ugliest wordscalps
choosing the worst possible
authors
you can think of...
stopping Kali-sheltered eyes on cheap
how-to’s
why-not’s
& still sacred poets
of the underrated mire:
all Frenchmen, all keen on the devil
one brainscrewed
German screenwriter...

there: see all those SM
saloons
visits... drop from these pages
like honeymoon dancers

there...
there is the pin
on reading
the Fountain of Hyacinth
hallways alit in candles
& brewery sparkled
in clear Cracov
spray verse

there...
there is this 2nd hand feeling again:
her dress didn’t come
from a store
you might’ve
heard of...
the girl herself
don’t come from starshine areas
other than
cheap brocade
star-alike dots
in the 2nd hand’s entrance
window

Engbers shirt & Man of Town jacket

2012-01-09T01:37:00.000-08:00

This is yet another poem from the "Bum Seraphim" manuscript. It was first published online in Parasitic on Monday, June 9, 2008. Here is "Vortex" in the original 2008 edit:

Vortex
by A.J. Kaufmann

does it really all work like a vortex?
this Engbers shirt
& Man of Town jacket
make a perfect pair of moods...

double dare the observer
& nail him down
with a pink Shoa scarf

so choose a straw for the lady in question
question the answer
in tall frozen glass
frame
while talkin’ quite loosely...

on conversations like these
I wish I had a label for
myself...
a price to stick to
a trademark to rely on
a product
to sell her

wish my poems were as good
as the blank morning sky
clear-blue-swifting-
arranging
itself
anew

wish I could tell her about them
wish I could quote
myself

wish I had a bucket for my soul
& a casket
to put my eyes in
a coffin
to call it a day
& good ole cross
to hang on

guess it really works like a vortex

guess she’s leavin’
this very
moment

renewed every morning
but still in the same-spot
condition

troubled & trapped in verse
but never as clear
as
the
sky

thus
never
true
or sold

Vigilante starless womb

2012-01-06T05:03:00.000-08:00

This poem was first published in Gloom Cupboard on Friday, June 6, 2008. It was written sometime in May, though somehow it became a part of the later "Bum Seraphim" manuscript, not of the source "Siva" material. Here's the original edit:

On the abandoned viaduct nearby

she chooses the abandoned viaduct
passing
while mime country eyes
sink into
the shutdown
red shattered
sunset
above the work-in-progress
never finished
construction
bird alike
&
fully
aware
of the cut

she chooses to go
& I follow
though that’s not
exactly
routine
& we’re not exactly on stage
this time

there are many here spirits
that choose not to stay
when sights like these
are eternal
enough
& so very
alluring
to
the altering arlequin’s
mannequin
eyesight

& the viaduct opens:
the vigilante
starless
womb

inviting...
cool
& quiet...

just a few drops of sleep
& we’re in

& the passing world’s
musical
none of our
business

Whole in the fragments of a handshake

2012-01-04T03:34:00.000-08:00

The poems that follow were first published in The on Tuesday, June 3, 2008. "A Bunch of Floating Anarchists" is from "32 Poems from the Road" and "Handshake" was written roughly in the same time period, probably late May 2008. Here they are, in the original 2008 edits, complete with charming little flaws:

Handshake

live again...
cut out all indecent past lines
word forms
made into flesh
cut out all infected flesh
bleed all the black
blood
throw out the lungs
& the liver
retrace the unfortunate quotes
rewrite the very first scene
move back
to the soulless scenery
of birth
delete all incongruous
hurt
conspire w/ the bright ghosts
of dawn
retire into the
dream night

live again...
in the wilderness' memory only
as one of the lucky
bastards
one of the fortunate
changelings

continue to grow
drop lines
make money
spend it on kasbah blue harlots
buy'em scarves & boots
dress'em for the proper
occasion
they pour so much sugar
into your eyes
that the salt in the stomach
don't hurt
anymore
& your heartache
becomes a spider

live again...
decide yourself & be again
whole

whole in the moments
when eyes meet

whole in the fragments
of a handshake

A Bunch of Floating Anarchists

the Molotov brigade
has entered
my apartment
threshold burners
immobile
sleepless kids of inertia
sordid units
of black
restlessly packed
together
comin' to see their
favorite
writer

tried to perforate my couch
slay my cat
cram my trumpet
w/ shit
& feed the birdy
some acetone
write some
bright slogans
all across my bathroom
wall
shout their poems
out of my windows
piss on the streets
from balcony high
throw buckets of rotten food
at passing policemen
sniff some glue
& fuck my newest
best
friend

vomit balloons
explore
the twilight:
magic pills start workin'

our boys sure need some sleep:
been up for 72 hours
smashing system
controls
burnin' some old buddhist
writings

how can I convince them
that the system
sleeps only in their heads
while they're wide awake
on meth
hallucinating
self-induced
paranoias
coming to visit
their favorite
writer

so tired of these
so-called
visits...

From the banks of river Warta

2012-01-02T06:04:00.000-08:00

What follows are two poems originally published in Lit Up Magazine - I'm pretty sure "River actor beggars" was published first, on Monday, June 2, 2008 and "Cheese moon fails" was added later on - it could have been posted on Thursday, July 3, 2008, if my source is not mistaken (then again, this date might refer to a completely different piece). Anyway, "Cheese moon fails" is taken straight from the "32 Poems from the Road" manuscript and it was later included in "Broke Nuptial Minds" (Virgogray Press, 2009). "River actor beggars", written roughly at the same time, was later published in "I'm Already Not Here" (Shadow Archer Press, 2009). The original post in Lit Up Magazine also included some lyrics, but they were taken from a completely different time period (2004) than these here two (dates of composition included):

Cheese moon fails
A.J. Kaufmann, May 19, 2008

the cheese moon has failed
yet once
again
drowned in the bare
mercury river’s
dip
passing houseboats’
juxtapoints
colonies of river
monks
bearers of truths
always heavy
in the white summer’s
middle
ground
litanies goin’ nowhere
night still young
& over the top
all spectators
barbiturate...
rats leave barge
rusty
heavens
the moon shall feed
curiosity
the dip adds trust
to the monks’
foul taste
cascadin’ down the
pretty
rabies
tails
the cheese moon has failed
yet once
again
& the symptoms
were simply
outrageous

River actor beggars
A.J. Kaufmann, May 21, 2008

one chilling noon
the bridge all new & enlightened
as opposed to our
spirit
all in patches & stain
middle of March
the marchy sun marchin’
our women ran away
w/ St.James queers & rag dolls
spiked as usual
wearin’ hundreds of dresses
at once
one giant umbrella
hourglass
hobo
we’ve had raw fish served on
rusty Coke cans
blue weeds to top it
a bit of salt that someone
brought in
some rum
found at the wrecked
fishing boat’s
deckhouse
the river would always feed
her beggars:
all people from her banks
are actors
the lowest deepest
society’s
scum
all people here are
beggars
the stage’s the marchy noon:
oiled
wooden
runaround
get ready for the play, boys
the river-a-callin’
the curtains set apart
impatiently waiting
for a new searing
drama...
the applause’s the always
near
rain
& rooftop carbon
black
chick

Into the kitchen sink

2011-12-30T03:34:00.000-08:00

The poem that follows was also not a part of the "32 Poems from the Road"/"Siva in Rags" manuscript, but it was written and published online in the same time period, and I'm pretty sure that's my third publishing credit. I believe it was posted at Word Slaw on Wednesday, May 28, 2008 (that is the date given in the acceptance mail from Ryan P. Standley, along with a link, though I couldn't find my poem in the journal the last time I checked). The piece was preserved on my old PC (dated May 25, 2008) and also in the submission e-mail (same date). Later it was published in "Broke Nuptial Minds" (Virgogray Press, 2009). Here it is, in the original edit:

The diver

Pistol insolent diver
you dive insolently further
into the kitchen sink's
want of
sharpness
phony as you are & phony as the sink
is
water keeps insolently
dissolving the ribs
penetrating
the groin candidate
sweepin' up the hair tents
insolently diving
furtherly uneven
while her dress is the only guide
last year's perfume
adole
scent's
picture
down at the kitchen sink's
kitchen
leadin' her favorite diver
down plate's dirt
cascade

Serenity’s cunning gardens

2011-12-29T12:18:00.000-08:00

What follows is, I believe, my second publishing credit - "Decrescendo" at The Beat, Tuesday, May 27, 2008. The name of the journal says it all, and the piece comes from a manuscript of Cracow-related poems, "The Moon as a Talker", of which large fragments were published as a limited run chapbook by New Polish Beat on June 14, 2009. This has nothing to do with "Siva" or even "32 Poems...", but that's still an interesting piece, even if only a fragment of a bigger, multi-part poem, plus it was published online at the same time as most of the "Siva"-related material. Anyway, I'll let the words speak for themselves again - here is "Decrescendo" in its original 2008 edit:

Decrescendo
by A.J. Kaufmann

serenity’s cunning gardens… try to portrait
her cardinal rule’s
composures
draw it or write it down w/
notes, spirals, whatevers
crypts, ovals, broken Englishes:
B flat
suits here
best

we’re in Cracov’s hellpit, dear
w/ noone to confide
in
but the devil in wild red heels
dancin’
the raindog rumba
in St Mary’s Church
religiously drunk
& ecstatic
paradin’ in drag
‘cross the altar & back

unstoppable echoes crash
velvet
corridors below him
her
explore & rewrite
serenity’s cunning
mute
breakdowns

devil’s heels click like dew drops
decrescendos
immuted

Many Tuesdays ago

2011-12-27T12:37:00.000-08:00

What follows is my literary debut - 3 poems published on Tuesday, May 13, 2008 in Zone: International Journal of Poems and Prose. Those poems didn't make it into "Siva in Rags", but that doesn't mean their quality differs from what I usually wrote and published back in 2008 - they are just as strong as "Siva" material, and certainly much better than the rest of the poems rejected from the original "Siva" manuscript ("32 Poems from the Road"). All 3 poems appear here in original edits and the interesting, a bit misguiding, first ever bio is included. "Bridges" were later published in "I'm Already Not Here" (Shadow Archer Press, February 14, 2009), while "Debasement" and "Ghosts of the miners" were published in "Broke Nuptial Minds" (Virgogray Press, September 22, 2009). I hope you enjoy these poems as much as I enjoyed writing them back then. I hope my words can take you places, just like music, bop or free jazz can take you traveling - there are bridges in Poznan, Poland, dark streets of Paris and African/Mexican colors in these lines. "Your poems are good enough to make it into many of the numerous literary magazines in the United States, England, India and on the web." (Henri Beauregard, Zone acceptance letter, Tuesday, May 6, 2008). This is what got me going - and kept me going strong.

Bridges

the far-eastern bridge of oil in orange
god-like
flows into the western bridge of sanity
blue-spotted gentle
crossing madly
the delirious bridge of yesteryear's passions
flavours
ornaments
street specimens
delicate voices of amber
death-angels
frozen in benevolent ashes
praying over restless bridges of amaranth
echoes
filled w/ jumpers & trombone masters
dildoed whores panicked
of the frequently damaged
White Corners
where poetry's jazz and jazz's poetry
neitherway
and anyone chooses trumpets of fervor...
blow!
bridges are
what bridges see
& what can we make of 'em
with diamond-hands
and hair of gasoline
burning
fanatic circles of flat notes
perfect
have I just heard the Blue Kantata
orchestrated
or was it just a vacant point
in the sweet time-ravaged
Hollywoods of glory...
it's all so jimdandy
dear Gina of honour...
and now
we're hitting
La Paz

Debasement

Oh the sweet art of debasement:
to breathe the very same air
cockroaches inhale
& to sleep w/ their
decadence debris
under roaring
refrigerator's
heaven...

to lie under Eiffel Tower
& any parisian sidewalk I'll find
effective
to radiate
with Madame Bleu
and her boys of reddening twilights:
the pursuer of noir city magic...

to throw my guts into the coin-box
spiting out verses at random
faceless landscapes throwing moons and
sunrays
and everyrays
between
for her harvest moon pleasure
where words are but ornaments
for
penetrating spirits

to crystallize the draperies of nite
saxes
wailing dead dramatists hoaxes
post meridian...

or to hear once again
the marked young man's confessions
send-up

sending you up and sending me down
shade-toxic bluntness:
must learn the fine art of debasement
to become
angels
not meat&bone&gut bags
or madmen dancing w/ fireworks
straw-men
with eyes wild on
panic buttons...

to find an escape
from escaping...

Ghosts of the miners

we, the Solar System renegades
we, the underpaid dogs of shark's fin soup
we, the in-crowd connoisseurs of awareness
we, the undemanding notes on chimney tops
writing in smoke
and water only
for fire is too hot to witness
and smoke can resist them all...
we, who come on patchy wings
of hyenas
piranha sailors on dead feet
like sculptures...
living on air and cat food promises
in the morning
we, the holders of hollow fibre ghosts
we, the white Indian partisans
of rhythm...
we, the narcissistic haters of
nihilistic manners
ambassadors of well-mannered old-fashioned
word-riddlers
martini drinkers
book-swallowers, sword-shapers
albino deconstructors
we, the sunlight over Monte Alban
in a greener kind of blue
than
ever by human imagined...
ghosts of the miners on turntable
patios
black velvet verandas
the day watch of deadly compromises...
we, the syllabic punch bowls
empty taxis at 3am
we, the drinker inside

AJ Kaufmann was born in June, 1985 in Poznan, Poland – the capital of Wielkopolska. After graduating from local high school in 2004, he traveled to Berlin in search of inspiration, then studied Polish and English philology at Poznan's universities before dropping out to start various bands. Mr Kaufmann draws his current inspiration from primal poetry, magic, free-verse, Sartre, ghost poetry, surrealism and shamanism. He writes in English.

My latest chapbook

2011-12-18T07:31:00.000-08:00

While I'm waiting for the new year and comments on the previous post, or any other input telling me what should I post here first from the "Siva in Rags"-era, I'd like to advertise my latest chapbook, "Love Lions of Paris", published this October by Kendra Steiner Editions. Here's a fragment of my Horror Sleaze Trash interview, where I discuss it:

“Love Lions” was written in Paris especially for KSE and it’s got a strong music connection. One summer evening I was sitting and smoking in a cheap hotel room, thinking about glam rock, space-age poets and lost loves, listening to Marc Bolan and Tyrannosaurus Rex, sketching dragons in my notebook… an hour or two later I realized I’ve sketched something more reminiscent of a lion and I wrote down the line “I kiss / Drifting love lions / With a golden smile” which later, upon my return to Poznan, became the first line of the title poem. Most of the other poems were composed while humming imaginary words with a grungy guitar accompaniment, but the melodies have since been lost as we had no recording equipment, not even a laptop, in my room. Some of my friends think I used cut-up techniques to develop these poems or “lyrics”, but truth is I definitely stopped doing cut-ups last year. “Love Lions” is, in my opinion, a glam-rock version of “Siva in Rags”, with dusty beauty gone all shiny and chromed, with once dried blood now boiling to the sound of “All the Young Dudes”.

The whole interview can be found here:http://www.horrorsleazetrash.com/interviews/13-questions-with-a-j-kaufmann/and "Love Lions of Paris" can be ordered at:http://kendrasteinereditions.wordpress.com/

Thank you for everything, dear friends and readers - I wish you all the best for the holiday season and a wonderful new year!
A.J.

Welcome

2011-12-15T12:15:00.000-08:00

Welcome to "fool moon piano", a place where I will simply share my poetry and do less talking than it usually takes to "promote" your writing. The name of this blog comes from a line in one of my poems, "The Street Always Follows the Streetlight", which was originally published in "Siva in Rags" (Kendra Steiner Editions) back in June 2008. I guess this chapbook has since become quite legendary - in fact, it shouldn't, as it's quite accessible and several of these half-mythical poems can now be found online in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, which also features a great, funny shot of me in a friended kitchen. Yes, as you probably realized, I'm A.J. Kaufmann, the modern Polish poet and songwriter known (or so I'm told) quite well in the "small press circles". I used to be the editor of Eviscerator Heaven, I used to live in Berlin, roam Tangier and Parisian streets and I also authored lots of chapbooks, including "Broke Nuptial Minds", "Saint of Kreuzberg", "Amazon, the Fame of God" and many, many more... but let's not talk about it here - I'm here to start a new chapter in my life and I would rather not hear of my mythical "demigod" past anymore - let's start it all over again - I want to feel as if I haven't published anything before, like a complete newbie to the "publishing world", a man with no history of killing trees - the readers who know me already can always pretend we just met and those completely new to my work are more than welcome to have a look at this blog and read a poem or two. I'll start sharing these poems soon, preferably starting with all "Siva"-related material, so there you have it - the "2008 myth" unveiled and stripped to words only - no gimmicks, no "background". In other news, now I finally have a record out - it's called "Second Hand Man" and it's my first ever album: 12 songs, over 46 minutes of music on vinyl and CD - I'm very excited about it - you can check out the music online if you like, but unfortunately it's a Polish market only release... you can also buy my latest chapbook, "Love Lions of Paris" from Kendra Steiner Editions - this one's worldwide... back to "fool moon piano" - which poem should I publish first? Does anyone have a favorite A.J. Kaufmann poem? What's next? Where to go from here?
Let's check it out together,
A.J.