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by Marcella Durand
‘the hours we pass are horae, are stars.” The hours I have spent with you are a constellation (Mallarmé), a constellation out of the infinite spread of lights (time, hours), and I love experiencing the year shift while in the house of Anne. “write into/ only poetry.” And only poetry is everything in the house of Anne. “hematite or vermilion rubbed into/ incised lines of shell texts/ so they shine in poetry.” Your work, you, your work, your poem “trickster feminism” and so many other poems continue to talk with other poets here now and to come—”trying to remember role in late capital poet-life-vow-archive, a feminine principle, whatever gender.” The vow you took shows the seriousness of this vocation, to be poet. O pOets! Our roles have become clearer, but more complicated, our life work more urgent—hard to do all this hard work and harder still!—but we know we are needed, and you remind us every day that. “We are swimming in nuclear semen in which we are learning to breathe like mutant beasts.” Outriders in this glowing dangerous medium never more necessary. “ear to/ wicked heart, a metronome.” Do we keep the rhythm? Rhyme is perhaps the most mysterious of all the poetic arts—hiding great subtlety in obviousness. Everything we say (create) has a beat and a breath. “alert with conch alarum.” We stay alert to what the sounds tell us. You are a nuclear woman. The protest led you close to the spaces of atom dismemberment and release. You held the feet of great poets as they transformed upward. “did she breathe fire,” yes, she does. “did she walk on fire,” yes, she does. “did she battle the masculine wits to a pulp,” oh, yes she surely does. “did she overdose on testosterone,” yes, we are all overdosed on testosterone, but you search always and find the countervenom. “did we succumb to mere guise?” Some of us, but not all of us, thank you for the jaguar light to lead us out of the mists. “how clear a sound/ come all the way through her speaking.” Anne, you provide spaces for so many voices. And into those spaces your voice leading. “in love with all scale and wings of luminous birds.” “and my colors cling to you in weather.” “to fierce tenderness in new feminism.” Holding your hand together we sing out.
Marcella Durand’s most recent books include The Prospect (Delete Press) and her translation of Michèle Métail’s book-length poem, Earth’s Horizons (Black Square Editions). She is currently working on a new book forthcoming from Black Square Editions.
by Brenda Coultas
When David asked me to write something in honor of Anne’s birthday, my brain went haywire, how to address the various ways Anne has enriched my life? Since meeting Anne in the ’90s, I have watched her “vow to poetry” in action: the bold and brilliant evolution of her work and performance; the transmission of lineage while remaining open to change and welcoming of emerging poets into the space; In relationships, the necessity of repair; negotiations and forgiveness, and the cherishing of one’s peers, elders and poetry communities.
I am away from my books, so I am writing about listening to one of my favorite poems by Anne, “Hopes and Fears.”
In the online Naropa archives I found a recording of Marianne Faithfull’s Lyric Song Writing class from 1988. She’s a natural teacher of the art of songwriting. She knows where she wants to go and starts with a discussion of her own “fear of being judged” and “fear of waking up with a stranger” that she says happened often when she was using. Faithfull asks the class to collaborate on a list of fears, and then she talks about recording Anne’s “Hopes and Fears” for her next record. Faithfull reads the entire poem, about 20 minutes; she slows down the tempo, lets the words sink in. Her interpretation is profound.
For Anne’s 75th birthday, the artist and poet No Land, collaborated with Anne to make The Evening of the Day (https://allenginsberg.org/2020/05/67450/), a film poem, dedicated to Marianne Faithfull in memory of the beloved music producer Hal Willner who died of Covid 19 earlier this year. The film begins with an epigram from Keats, “uncertainties, mysteries, doubts” and Faithfull reads from the beginning of “Hopes and Fears” as images of our turbulent times play. The film gathers archival photographs by Allen Ginsberg, along with other footage of these two outriders, Anne and Marianne, as kindred spirits, as sisters, as artists.
There is something about “Hopes and Fears” that reminds me of Virginia Woolf’s short story “Kew Gardens;” part disembodied voices, and characters, snippets of conversations floating in the air.More importantly, I love that “Hopes and Fears” assures us that we are not alone in our struggle against existential elements “Wake in the morning: the clock, the day, job” and that hope, the counter-balance to fear, propels us forward despite our fears. Hope to overcome the dread of loneliness, and even the nervously chattering friend, or hope to see a lover again, and “to be in a well heated place, a place with light.” Hope in the face of rubber bullets and tear gas. Hope to topple old monuments. “Hopes and fears,” we have them.
Brenda Coultas’ poetry can be found in Bomb and The Brooklyn Rail and the anthologies Readings in Contemporary Poetry published by the DIA art foundation; What is Poetry (Just Kidding, I Know You Know) Interviews from the Poetry Project newsletter, (1983-2009); and Symmetries Three years of Art and Poetry at Dominque Levy. This spring she completed an artist residency at the Robert Rauschenberg Foundation in Captiva, Fla.
On Anne Waldman’s Trilogy
by Bill Considine
The Iovis Trilogy Anne Waldman Coffee House Press
This extraordinary epic poem, published in portions over decades, and released in its entirety by Coffee House Press in 2011, is some 1,000 pages long. For this review, I have read closely the first-third of the poem, Book I – All Is Full of Jove, exploring the vivid language itself and specific events and discoveries in its narrative.
As Anne Waldman tells us at the very beginning, Iovis is a “mythopoetic epic.” It seeks to “rebuild a psyche – or world,” and to actualize “how women discover the unknown.” It will trace “how the woman poet-mind would fare and flow,” as she “speak[s] out from within her personal narrative.” It is “a woman’s poem made with urgency.”
“I honor and dance on the corpse of the poetry gone before me,” she says, acknowledging her debt and challenge in 20th century “masters” of the epic—Williams, Pound, Zukofsky, Olson, and H.D. But in Waldman’s epic, “unlike the men’s, my history and myths are personal ones.” It will require great poetic power, which she promises:
The poet invokes the familiar Judeo-Christian patriarch, who is seductive
in his humility. Her own magisterial power competes with his. … She gets out
of bed each day to greet & study the phenomenal world. And her investigation
is the highest art she imagines. … She will imitate, play prophet & tell allegories
on judgement day as only a woman might.
Iovis is a possessive form of Jove, of the foremost Roman God in the Aeneid, a foundational epic of war. Virgil uses it in the line, “Iovis omnia plena,” meaning “all is full of Jove.” Or put another way: our world is patriarchal.
The frontispiece is a photo of Waldman as an infant in the lap of her father, who is in an army uniform, just returned from the global cataclysm of World War II. Her father is a recurring character, and he may bear psychic wounds of that war that manifest as apparent depression. “Did you ever feel you couldn’t speak? This is why I write,” she says.
The impelled urgency of the heirs of that conflagration, as new dangers always loom in an age of nuclear weapons (and now in climate change and global pandemic), is fundamental to her quest.
we children of war gone further,
inherit the words, the earth
Stylistically, this is a modern or postmodern work, multifaceted, varied in diction and line, fragmented, elliptical, experimental. Many sections have the rhythm and repetition of oral performance of poetry, as is consistent with the origins of epic itself and with Anne Waldman’s longstanding practice. Its central themes, at least through Book I, are closest to Wordsworth’s Prelude, as an epic story of a mind finding itself—“the history of a Poet’s mind,” as Wordsworth wrote—through devotion to poetry and learning, spiritual search, communion with nature, exploratory travel, and political idealism.
She has both exposed & guarded her life; whatever poetry survives is the
autobiography of a dreamer.
Where Wordsworth had his dear friend Coleridge, Waldman is at the center of diverse generations of poets, who commune with her here in quoted letters and conversations. They are colleagues in what is not entirely a solitary journey.
& they are all the poets in my book
a big heart church
Waldman’s spiritual seeking is more radical than Wordsworth’s, franker and farther-reaching, and her language is unrestrained. We experience the effort and pain of that seeking, racing against world catastrophe. We encounter forgotten gods of distant ages, mere names, as well as gods and symbols of Buddhist traditions. They change form like demigods in fantastical tales of Blake. Another Romantic Idealist looms large here too—the figure of Holderlin that has been so extensively discussed in continental philosophy over the past century, the poet calling for the presence of the old gods in a world emptied of meaning.
The central, gendered, fact of a woman writing an epic, and it being an outcry against patriarchy and its war-state, is richly textured by the subtleties of the poet’s relationships with her father, brother, half-brother, male poets and friends, lovers and husbands. “I want to say to dear male lovers living & dead not anger made this…” Of particular importance is her son, Ambrose Bye, to whom Iovis is dedicated: “Her son, who is willing to grow up to her as she grows down to him, will be her guide. He is trickster, shape-shifter who both interrupts her and goads her on.” The reader sees Ambrose play as a child and inquire and grow in nearly every chapter. This helps ground the spiritual and artistic striving in the parental everyday with its joys and surprises.
“The boy teases her back from her role as sober Superwoman.”
There are pictograms on some pages, which look like archaic inscriptions and enhance the mythopoetic effect.
In Book 1, Waldman often identifies with male world aspects within and all around her, making them her own. At times the spiraling male and female attributes converge in the image of hermaphrodite. This sequence of excerpts suggests her coming into her own:
…You are the sprawling male world today…
You are never the enemy…
A little girl is trapped inside trying to get out of you
The myths are alive or a time
I come out full-grown of my father’s split head
and am armed for the battle of love.
Iovis…Dear Father who made me so to be a poet on the battlefield of Mars
It is you, first of male
It is you I will salute again
& the man in me
I speak in a man’s voice wildly discordant
I don women’s clothes
& deny the old religion
With my ironic undercutting, my new haircut
I speak in a foolish tongue
with a bitter flavor of love of them, the men
Exhausted with them, calm is my madness
I spit on my enemy as I am a woman
& as I am chorus I pretend throughout the cycle
Iovis is not bisexual but is as
hermatia, missing the mark
I turn my essence into a myth of origin
& prepare chicken propellers at the stove
In order to make the crops grow
You men must change into women.
Other women poets share her complex journey among men. In a dream,
… Bernadette and I guard the life of John Ashbery in a hut
We take care of them, the men, the poet-men,
providing them all night with little plastic ink refills
we wear like charms around our necks
She thinks back to her apprenticeship in her craft. In Chapter VI, she recalls working “backstage quite young – a ‘gopher’ – at the Shakespeare festival in Stratford, Connecticut, observing night upon night Morris Carnovsky’s rendering of the mad Lear.” The play’s clashes among father and daughters, and her own mother’s surprising, tearful identification with an unloved parent, kindle strong emotions. “She goes back to this play again, again as it set her ear to a beautiful male cadence beyond gender & broke her heart.”
Robert Creeley gets special mention in Chapter VII as an influential “master poet, a youthful ‘elder’ whose own work has radicalized poetic thought & possibility. The scientific scrutiny he brings to line, syllable, provokes her own attention, which takes another direction ….He perhaps epitomizes the dangers of the sensuous poet-life. Like her, he wants it all and is frequently travelling.”
It was the love in poetry
& how to be a young woman in poetry
You can’t be sappy
You never touched me
but took love with all the syllables
& were a kind of tough place
for me to get to
A woman all over the place with her words.
What I learn
it is a tough world to be all over in
you love you lose
In Chapter VIII, she writes formally “to catch her breath.” She writes sonnets to stir more memories.
Never retreat from scrutinizing you who are deep
In the sentences although half-dreamed
What she remembers is crawling as a young woman in 1962 into an innermost chamber of the Cheops tomb, a vivid image of spiritual seeking. “You had to crawl through the corridors that held the sand as a death trap. You had to crawl like an animal, like the worm you had first been in your climb up the evolutionary ladder. You had to mix with the dirt and dust so they choked you. … You had to view yourself as witness, as barge, as eyes from another realm. You had to make your journey a sacred one toward the center of the past and toward death and rebirth in an old mythology. … You had to crawl as witness, as first woman, as first girl, as sacrificial victim….”
This presages a rebirth and an initiation into mysteries. As she matures in her craft and journey, many patriarchs at the top of the mountain demand, “Give us your heart!”
But now I’ve taken it out of my aching chest
& wrapped it in linen in the basket
It will be saved for the down-there people.
I will give it to them
I sew myself up
But in the meantime I am hollow woman
& fool them
& I give them a medium red stone
the size of my heart but all the time saying
No no! to excite them further.
spends a long
in the metaphoric water
After an interlude with young Ambrose in Chapter IX, the Cheops temple memories widen in Chapter X into one of my favorite sections, an extended metaphor of living in a parched and desolate desert as an old hag with a patriarchal male companion whom she follows. “She sees him as a foolish prophet.” He “resumes [his] monologue to the bewildered passing by.” Being his confidante “gave her an illusion of power but created further servitude.” She now sees him as a false tradition and does not spare her invective:
… My shelves sag under the weight of your
teachings. My cave is a repository of the
inconsequence of your individuation. …
…The world at large has no interest
in the hostage you’ve become. You are finally
an artifact of speech and dust.
This revelation has a freeing potential, but the old woman is still powerless in this desert.
The problem of darkness and light has not been
solved. I have the despair of a scientist and
am barely legible now on the page.
After this searing vision, the poet travels in Chapter XI with her son to Bali, to study “language, gamelan, religion & ritual.” She finds that, “the ‘male’ here is more dormant deity, integrated into a transcendent yet powerful hermaphrodite consciousness & the dust of her pencil.” The path is not always forward. “She moves in circles, not lines. Why would anyone think the contrary?”
I come into you from a great distance a penniless poetry.
I am merely a long rope bound in greencloth,
with a great mane of lalang grass, effigy of the
serpent, mere effigy woman becoming man becoming
woman becoming man again. Mercy!
…she writes as
Her personal growth continues as she feels less competitive and sheds “the seductive submissive ingenue.” She awakens to the boy within her, who is being tested by rough, mocking men, and so becoming a maverick, a cowboy, a young soldier.
I keep up with the best of them. I don’t have to be an object of their desire.
I can feed tigers if I wish and ride on the backs of elephants. … I write to keep
myself pure. …
[I] establish the will of a man coming to life, just coming to life. Male poet on
the brink of his/her fortune … To come before all the goddesses of thunder and
song as a novice, stealing their power. They don’t recognize me. I’ve grown.
There are other quests and discoveries, including a visit to Neolithic caves in France that evokes images of a “hag Neanderthal” and a
… voice as
in a quarry
“I, the Matriarch, did exist.”
There are nights writing until dawn, some leaving their mark in strangely punctuated, misspelled verses that trace ecstatic effort.
The price of literary dedication can be steep. In Chapter XV Dead Guts & Bone, a letter to her from an unnamed person states in part, “I sometimes think the Poetry Project ruined both my marriages because it created some adjunct world that had nothing to do with ‘our’ life but was just a weird volatile mix of business, pleasure, friendship & that it ultimately all got in the way.”
Some of the most passionate and compelling verses confront the break-ups of marriages. In Chapter IV, there’s a heart-breaking sonnet, “Break off sad kiss dearest husband,” written “after Donne in a kind of expiration mode.” Chapter XX, Ousted, is likewise devastating.
I see you. I see you. And stick in the blade.
It comes to naught but writing, writing.
She turns again to studying Buddhist thought in Chapter XXI, Self Other Both Neither. That thought challenges the idea of a solid existence and posits an ocean-like world where things come together through mutual communication, like ion exchanges in our neurons. As she continues in the next chapter, “There is no first cause, there is no final cause. All the factors we observe in any situation have arisen because of the subtle influence of many factors. Cause & effect when observed closely go back & back.”
The final chapter of Book I, Chapter XXIII, is entitled “You Reduce Me to an Object of Desire.” Her struggle to be recognized as a poet has circled back again, to her “ultimate protest,” but now she sees the male godhead as “Fat Almighty” and feels “an acceptance of her power as twin of the male and perhaps the better artist because she does write down her unflinching vision. And is willing to love her enemy.”
From her hard-won vantage, she offers simple advice to cultural workers: “you are mere vessel for lion’s roar.” The real work requires discipline, attention, accuracy, investigation, not only for poetry but to write a citizen’s complaint.
[A]lways move gracefully with your subtle sense of humor to navigate
the dark passage. Seek out the like-minded. You will be a community
of eyes. And you will create the world in your heart.
It is a hope offered in humility. That hope has been earned, as she promised, in poetry of unflinching vision and love.
I’ll lead you to the ocean. I know the way. You will be baptized
in my ocean. In my fire.
Bill Considine (www.williamconsidine.com) is printed matter editor for Boog City. His books include The Furies and Strange Coherence (The Operating System), and The Other Myrtle (forthcoming, Finishing Line Press). His full-length plays include Moral Support and Women’s Mysteries. His latest short play Aunt Peg and the Comptometer was staged at The Bowery Poetry Club in February. A CD of his poems with music, An Early Spring, was produced by Ambrose Bye for Fast Speaking Music.
Anne Waldman photo by Lucia Hinojosa Gaxiola
by Ambrose Bye
Seems like forever ago or maybe just the other day when I began my first frequency recipe for alphabet soup first angel Akilah then mother Anne I always liked making recordings performance was never a destination but thats what/where people seem to like/go/do people who are compelled to stand in front of other people and speak what they write they seem to like having music around or something and it opened many doors and windows from the United Kingdom of Slovakian Morocco to New Belgian Mexico and Southern Spanish Canada cities of mind and states united festivals and fiestivals flights, lights, and fights essential, trivial, and irreplaceable and many a good people have gathered along the way Every body persists in its state of being at rest or of moving uniformly straight forward, except insofar as it is compelled to change its state by force impressed. “Ah yes” I remembered “that unbalanced force of impression” “Mom, why do you put on makeup before you go to bed?” “Because you never know who you will meet in your dreams”
(Mexico City, 2020)
Ambrose Bye (https://fastspeakingmusic.bandcamp.com) is a musician, engineer, and producer living in Mexico City, and is the co-founder of Fast Speaking Music with Anne Waldman. He has produced over 20 albums and frequently collaborates with poets. Recent 2020 productions are “Among the Poetry Stricken” (Clark Coolidge and Thurston Moore) and “Artificial Happiness Button” (Heroes are Gang Leaders). He has worked and performed at Masnaa and the Ecole de la Literature in Casablanca, Le Maison de Poesie in Paris, the fieEstival Maelstrom in Brussels, The Henry Miller Library in Big Sur, Pathway to Paris at Montreal POP 2015, and Casa Del Lago in Mexico City. He has also been involved in the recording studio and workshops at the Summer Writing Program at Naropa University since 2009.
No Land photo.
by Patricia Spears Jones
Anne Waldman makes me think of mothers. Mothers of poets. Her mother often came by the Poetry Project when I was working there. She was stylish in a traditional sort of way, but oh not her mind. Not traditional. And yet grounded.
That too is Anne, but she is traditional, or she holds many traditions in her heart and mind. The traditions of poetry: oracular, rhetorical, lyrical. The traditions of spirituality—her Buddhist practice. The traditions of pedagogy: she is always in many ways teaching with her poems, essays, interviews questioning the ways humans treat the planet, treat each other, treat other creatures. She wants us to find the answers and correct these massive injuries and injustices.
And there’s the tradition of festivity, hospitality—the welcomes she gives to all, no matter status. There are few poets on the planet who carry so may ways of being in one glamorous body, but Anne does it, intense, creative, disciplined, generous, compassionate and yet protective, enraged, engaged and demanding that we seek a just and loving world.—the Elder Woman, wise and wise cracking. The Elder Woman stylish and styling. It is grand to be in her presence for there will always be wine, cheer, music, and possibly gossip.
Patricia Spears Jones (www.psjones.com) is an African-American poet, playwight, cultural critic, educator, anthologist, and activist. She is the author of four collections, most recently A Lucent Fire: New and Selected Poems and five chapbooks. She is the 11th recipient of The Jackson Poetry Prize. She has taught at CUNY, Barnard College, Adelphi University, Hollins University, Naropa University, University of Rhode Island, and Rutgers University.
I was an M.F.A. student at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa Institute circa 1994.
The second year was very difficult, and I struggled to come up with a thesis and a build a coherent manuscript. Then my thesis advisor refused to work with me. Anne Waldman was my angel and agreed to read it all. How shocked I was, working odd jobs and living at my parents house in 1995, to get her dense and beautiful letter in response to this body of work, affirming the practice of writing. I last saw Anne in 1997 at Shambala Center in NYC. I told her I was pregnant. She said, “Oh my!” and started fanning herself. Then we did the meditation.
—Karin Falcone Krieger
Karin Falcone Krieger (karinfalconekrieger.com) lives and writes in Oyster Bay, N.Y. She is a staff writer at Able News, covering disability rights.
by Ruth Lepson
It’s one of those odd things, when you feel that you know someone so well
Anne came to my poetry course at The New England Conservatory a few years back. Her energy bowled us over; this from students who themselves have enormous energy. Some of us took her to lunch afterwards and then I had a little time to talk to her alone. I asked if she was born with so much energy.
“I guess so,” she said, “because when I was a kid I was always doing two things at once.” Unfortunately I can’t remember what those two things are! Maybe she does.
Even now the number of events she is involved in and organizations she heads and gigs she and her son hold at the apartment is a source of amazement. Of course her spiritual practices have enhanced that energy greatly, but she was already headed in the direction of OUT THERE, GO!
Ruth Lepson is poet-in-residence at The New England Conservatory, where she often collaborates with musicians. MadHat Press will be publishing her new and selected poems. Visit ruthlepson.com and click on Shop to hear musical settings of some of her poems from her last book, ask anyone (Pressed Wafer).
by Rachel Aydt
It’s one of those odd things, when you feel that you know someone so well and they don’t have any idea at all who you are. Anne Waldman was one of my earliest Poet Mother mentors, but she didn’t know this. She didn’t know that I followed her from reading to reading, beginning at age 18, picking my favorites and buying her books and getting them signed. If she could open her mouth and howl like that, in chants and incantations, then maybe I could, too.
Anne Waldman at 75. I wouldn’t dream of trying to explain her work; to attempt to prop her up against a specific category. Others have tried; The Village Voice said her work was “A syncopated web that includes the personal within the metaphysical and the environmental, tying the individual’s story to the story of the survival of the planet.” What I will say is that when I think of her work, it always reverberates back to her delivery. There she is, emerging from a small stage, out of a side shadow, her hair long and black, her eyes bright, a scarf swung around her neck. She’s speaking in sparks, setting my mind and my heart on fire, and I go to her when I need to find some fire of my own. The first collection I found was Helping the Dreamer. Giant Night came for me later.
It was a couple of years ago and I was standing on the subway (was it the 4/5?), holding onto the bar. I look down at the long blue plastic seat below me and it’s her, sitting with her son, a beautiful young man, who seems just a few years older than my own son. In another movie, I leave them alone in their bubble, but in this one I cannot. Out of me spills this younger version of myself, far less afraid, reaching for her like I did decades ago. I’ve loved your work since I was 18, it’s meant so much to me, I saw you in New York and I saw you in Albany when I was too young to get into the clubs. As time has passed for her, it’s passed for me. I consider today the mundane activities of motherhood we might have had in common. Or not.
Now I bring her performative work to students who are just finding the edges of their voices so they can see what’s possible. The Shamanic-rooted fast speaking woman still strikes a hot match, and from it my students catch the air like I did so many years ago, and rise above and beyond it. “I know how to work the machines,” indeed.
Rachel Aydt (www.rachelaydt.com / Twitter: @Rachelrooo / Insta RachelNYCroo) is a part-time assistant professor of writing at the New School University. She’s published essays and short stories in The White Review, HCE Review, Broad Street Journal, Post Road, Green Mountains Journal, and many other publications, and has completed a memoir. She lives in the East Village.
Anne Waldman at Poetry Project 1982.
Jackie Curtis and Anne Waldman, Poetry Project 1982.
Eileen Myles, Anne Waldman, Tom Weigel, and Helena Hughes at the Poetry Project 1979.
Anne Waldman, Rene Ricard, and Bernadette Mayer, at the MoMA Poetry Cabaret 10 at 450 W. 31st St., NYC .
Monica Claire (Weigel) Antonie began taking photographs of poets, painters, and performers during the mid-1970s. She documented NYC East Village poetry readings, new wave performances, and works by artists in Andy Warhol’s sphere of influence. She worked at The Museum of Modern Art in New York for over 38 years. During that time she photographed several of the MoMA poetry readings for Lita Hornick. Antonie’s photographs have appeared in The Full Deck Anthology; Dabble: Poems 1966-1980, John Godfrey; The Green Fuse, A Memoir by Lita Hornick; Nice to See You – Homage to Ted Berrigan; Superstar in a Housedress – The Jackie Curtis Movie; Not Enough Night (Naropa University); Collaborations by Greg Masters; and many other small press publications. She is editor of Accent Editions and has published works by poets Tom Weigel, Harris Schiff, Annabel Lee, Joel Lewis, and Pete Spence.
Ken “Angel” Davis – Anne Waldman at MacDougal Street, 2010, part of his series of collaborations (https://youtu.be/HL2HUqCVGB8). Each one is hand colored in watercolor by him and signed by Anne.
Ken “Angel” Davis received a B.F.A.from Kent State U.moved to NYC in1983-4. He has worked with numerous downtown performers including Penny Arcade, Linda Simpson, Annie Sprinkle, Chris Tanner, and Betty Bourne of the Bloolips Group. He is currently working on a series of print collaborations with John Giorno, Taylor Mead, Anne Waldman, Penny Arcade, Mario Montez, Jerome Rothenberg, Steve Dalachinsky, Yuko Otomo, Jonas Mekas, and Larry Fagin, among others.