Pour une économie non-aristotélicienne / For a non-Aristotelian economy

13 janvier 2018

AD Winans: On My 82nd Birthday

Filed under: Actualité, beat, livres, Poésie — Étiquettes : , — Isabelle Aubert-Baudron @ 7:11

Today I turn 82 and am making some early decisions in regard to poetry. I have been writing and publishing poetry for 55 years and as I have often said, “My poetry and my life are one and the same, they can’t be separated. With this said, I am making some decisions regarding poetry in 2018 and beyond.

I have given countless poetry readings over the many decades, but beginning this year I plan on giving just one paid reading a year.

It has become harder getting to poetry readings of others and I don’t drive at night anymore, so to my friends, do not feel slighted if I am not at a poetry reading you are giving. I may make an occasional exception if the reading is during the day and not far from where I live.

I’ll be primarily submitting work to a handful of print journals that I have a long-standing relationship with although I am always open to sending a poem when asked for one.

As many of you know, I had a bilingual book of poems published in Germany in December 2017 as well as a book on Charles Bukowski published in Turkey. I just completed a book of Selected Poems that will be published in Turkey next year.

For the remainder of the year I’ll be putting together a book of love poems for publication in the UK and concentrating on the last of the Crazy John Poems series.   This will give me 65 published books and chapbooks of poetry and prose. This is my last planned book.   I may still write an occasional poem when inspired to do so, but have published everything I want to publish in book form.

The exception is compilation of works already done for publication by my friends in Turkey, Germany, and the UK.

I never expected to live this long. It has been a wild and rewarding ride. The noted authors and musicians I have met are amazing and the number of loyal friends I have is deeply appreciated.

In friendship for 2018 and beyond.

A.D. Winans





29 avril 2017

Brion Gysin: Come to free the words

Filed under: art & culture, Interzone, Poésie — Étiquettes : , , — Isabelle Aubert-Baudron @ 10:58

Extrait de Brion Gysin, Poems of Poems.

Ecouter l’enregistrement: Come to free the words

15 avril 2017

Jean Azarel: Il est temps d’être « Encore plus nu »

Filed under: Actualité, Edition, Interzone, livres, Poésie — Étiquettes : , — Isabelle Aubert-Baudron @ 11:28


Hé oui, le printemps est en avance, et il est déjà temps d’être « Encore plus nu »

Les extraits à entendre ici : https://jeanazarel.bandcamp.com/

Le livre à commander en consultant l’avis de parution en PJ (10 € c’est donné)

Une bonne occasion de mettre du coeur (et du corps) à l’ouvrage !

Et nous restons à l’écoute de lieux, cafés, librairies, médiathèques, pour présenter « Encore plus nu », n’hésitez pas à me contacter

A très bientôt



Gros Textes

Avis de Souscription

Encore plus nu


Jean Azarel

J’aspire à concasser la lune

pour qu’elle jouisse

d’une utilité nouvelle.

J’aspire à l’idéal des fous

de faire danser

les murs impies

des cachots.

J’aspire à supprimer

toutes les entraves,

tous les temps morts,

vider les camions bennes

des beautés saccagées.

J’aspire aux écritures hallucinées.

J’ai toujours chéri

le mélange des genres.


Petit pois-enclume






à tuer dans l’oeuf

les désirs normalisés.


ISBN : 978-2-35082-323-2

94 pages au format 21 x 14 cm,

10 € (+ 2 € de port – port compris à partir de l’achat de 2 exemplaires)

Commande à

Gros Textes


05380 Châteauroux-les-Alpes

(Chèques à l’ordre de Gros Textes)


13 mars 2017

Rusty Truck: Beat Filter of the Wichita Vortex: The Continuing Impact of Robert Branaman’s Films, Text, Paintings and Assemblages by Marc Olmsted

Filed under: Actualité, art & culture, beat, livres, Poésie — Étiquettes : , , , , — Isabelle Aubert-Baudron @ 6:45

I first heard of Bob Branaman from L.A. performance artist Milo Johnson, who said to the effect that I “had to meet this guy, he knew all the Beats.”  I have to admit to a certain cynicism – such claims of Beat friendship are made by people who might’ve waved at Allen Ginsberg across the room, let alone had a few sentences with him.  My cardinal sin here rebounded in my face like an elastic band with an iron anvil on the end: “Well, how come I don’t know about him if he’s so fucking great?”  Not only do I now stand corrected, but it proved a profound teaching for my own poet’s obscurity dark to the horizon as well.  That Acme Dynamite roadrunner cartoon moment – the whites of my eyes blinking from a sooty, burned carcass in a moment of clarity – if you can’t make this American culture money, accidentally or otherwise, it has no interest in your droning commentaries.  You are a ghost.

Allen Ginsberg wrote his Vietnam poem-critique “Wichita Vortex Sutra” in 1966, itself a collage of conversation and radio snippets from a portable tape recorder Bob Dylan gave him.  Less known is that the term “Wichita Vortex” was a phrase Ginsberg heard from his friends Michael McClure, Bruce Connor, Charles Plymell and Robert Branaman, all who migrated to East and/or West Coast from this strange Kansas center of America.  For the most part, these figures also experimented outside of both poetic and artistic disciplines they were often pigeon-holed in.  Film, collage, stage plays, and photography were exploded through the shifting paradigm of the 1950s/60s Beat phenomenon.

Of all of these artists, Branaman is a seminal (and at the same time, perhaps the most obscure) figure of this period.  Known well by his contemporaries, Branaman’s own wild trajectory from alcoholism and addiction to recovery fused with a near-cursed lack of self-promotional skills shoved him under the radar.  (His good friend, Charles Plymell, suffers a similarly shocking lack of recognition, if for no other reason than his refusal to be his own publicist, even with an astounding novel like Last of the Moccasins.)

Branaman’s numerous contributions and collaborations with William Burroughs, McClure and Ginsberg now seem to be finally getting the cultural and historical place they deserve, helping to examine the larger multi-media aspect of the Wichita Vortex in its filtering of American mind – deconstructing and reassembling its artifacts in ways that are now part of mainstream media culture.

Enter Bob’s garage in Santa Monica, California for some of these artifacts.  He is still very active in his late 70s, this man Allen Ginsberg called “one of the most exquisite visionary artists in America.”  Bob’s running out of room.  His assemblages are stacked like hubcaps.  His paintings are piled together.  His seriagraphs lie on a work table – you might get one free if he feels like it.  Bob’s energy is exceptionally cheerful.  He practices the Chinese energy work Qi Gong and is a long time practitioner of Arica (Oscar Ichazo’s mystery school – see John Lily’s Center of the Cyclone for a good account) as well as a follower of Garchen Rinpoche, a Tibetan Buddhist master of high regard.  The result: it can be quite giddy to be with Bob, a feeling similar to just arriving in your childhood friend’s back yard.  The potential for fun is limitless.  There is much laughter.  I usually like to go to a little Santa Monica coffee shop with him for breakfast.  It’s his place.  Cheap pancakes, eggs, bacon and coffee.  There will always be a few people coming along.  Bob’s stories begin and they are uniformly hilarious.  He DID virtually know all the Beats – except he once saw Kerouac, drunk, surrounded in a bar and thought Jack wanted to be left alone.  Other than that, he can tell you stories about anyone you bring up.

More of this article at:



24 janvier 2017

Al Winans: Remembering Harold Norse

Filed under: Actualité, art & culture, Interzone, Littérature, livres, Poésie — Étiquettes : , , — Isabelle Aubert-Baudron @ 7:37


Neeli and I visit the ancient warrior
Praised by William Carlos Williams
And other literary giants
Ninety years old
Early stages of dementia setting in
Plays hide-and-seek inside
His solitary room
Now an old man trapped
In deaths shadow

He reads us a poem from
His collected works
His voice still loud and clear
Like Sunday church bells
Lays the book aside becomes
Frail and vulnerable again

This rock of ages with peaked hat
Walks slowly with us to the cafe
Across the street complains
As Neeli orders him a cup of coffee
‘ »Make mine black, » he says
Then asks why I didn’t put milk in it

This forgotten warrior walking
Back to the care facility
Neeli shielding him with an umbrella
To ward off the cold rain

« That’s my hotel, the Beat Hotel”
He says
Hotel Nirvana racing inside his blood

He stops says, “I can’t go on.”
Out of breath
As if the next step might be his last

He is like a bird
His eyes nesting
In my soul
Feeding on poetry
The Sum total of his life



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