fourth edition of the tenderness junction

march 17, 2020 audio link

BFC// chicken noodle soup// elements 1989-1990

robert hood// the wheel// motor: nighttime world 3

tyrone williams// incant [2x]// [from pennsound]

the bullitts// close your eyes

::set break::

robert duncan// often i am permitted to return to a meadow [2x]// poetry speaks

pm dawn// set adrift on memory bliss

blood orange// i wanna c u AND something to do// angel’s pulse

mariah carey// we belong together

::set break::

tyrone williams// ‘ [grave]// [from pennsound]

aaliyah// at your best you are love// age ain’t nothin but a number

teengirl fantasy// love don’t live here// hollywood hills ep

3 teens kill 4// circumscript// not motive

jayne cortez// essence of rose solitude// celebrations and solitudes

::set break::

beverly glenn-copeland// slow dance// keyboard fantasies

terry riley & don cherry// descending moonshine dervishes// live in köln (feb 23, 1975)

::set break::

shells// new era// in a cloud

the red krayola// T (I, II)// amor and language

brian eno// here come the warm jets// here come the warm jets

the view finder and the poem I have from and for Greer Lankton from when I was 17

Below are pictures of the Greer Lankton view finder that I still have from the Cranbrook Art Museum’s installation of “It’s all about ME, Not You” exhibit  from 1998.


Below those are a poem that I wrote about the exhibit. The poem won a contest in a local magazine called The Contemporary Muse, which was coming out of Port Huron, MI and thinking of itself as telling people about “blue water area art.”

Thanks to Andrew Durbin whose recent article with Paul Monroe, “Unalterable Strangeness,” inspired me to take pics of the reminders of this early love and share them.

I was 17 years old when I was in this room. It was at that show that I also learned about Nan Goldin, whose “Ballad of Sexual Dependency” video was installed near Greer Lankton’s one-room house. This stuff (their work) created attachments for me I didn’t know I had/ needed/ wanted.

I wrote another poem about Greer Lankton where I shouted, Allen Ginsberg-style, “Greer Lankton! Greer Lankton! At night I can hear you snore! I’m wide awake! Greer Lankton!” Not that I knew anything about the sounds she made while sleeping, but she stayed with me long after I left this room.

Surely there are things I didn’t understand or that I misunderstood that are evidenced by my 17 year-old-writer self. Surely she was saying something to me, though, and I had heard her well enough.




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