Notes Introduction: A Social Reading of Postmodern Poetic Form 1. In The Political Unconscious (1981), Fredric Jameson makes a stark distinction between intellectual and physical work. Nearly three decades later, in a postin- dustrial service economy, this stark distinction is less evident, though Jameson’s caution remains relevant: “One cannot without intellectual dishonesty assimilate the ‘production’ of texts . to the production of goods by factory workers: writ- ing and thinking are not alienated labor in that sense, and it is surely fatuous for intellectuals to seek to glamorize their tasks—which can for the most part be subsumed under the rubric of the elaboration, reproduction, or critique of ideology—by assimilating them to real work on the assembly line and to the experience of the resistance of matter in genuine manual labor” (45). 2. “Over the course of the Cold War, the United States devoted enormous resources to achieving and maintaining an advantage over the Soviet Union in most areas of military technology. Indeed, for the better part of half a century, reliance on qualitative superiority was at the heart of US military strategy, and its pur- suit was the central, defining feature of the entire American defense effort” (Friedberg 207). 3. Pointing to “the anticommunist crusade of the late 1940s and 1950s” as a major cause for the decline of American organized labor, Ellen Shrecker argues that “McCarthyism tamed American labor and brought it into the Cold War politi- cal consensus. Moreover, by preventing the nation’s unions, if so inclined, from building a broad-based social movement that challenged corporate values and championed social justice, McCarthyism narrowed political options for all Americans” (7). As a result of the McCarthy-era “purge of the left-led unions, there was no longer any question about [labor’s] support for American foreign policy. Both the CIO [Congress of Industrial Unions] and the AFL [American Federation of Labor] enlisted in the Cold War and, by the time they merged in the mid-fifties, most of the labor movement had been so thoroughly co-opted that its leaders provided cover for the CIA, and its conventions endorsed the war in Vietnam” (19). 170 ● Notes 4. “In the advanced capitalist countries in the boom years between 1950 and 1973, industry expanded by 5.5 percent on average and trade by 7.7 percent per annum” (Heller 105). 5. “Wherever consumerism dominated it reinforced the rule of capital by tending to undercut the significance of mass politics based on organized labor. The golden years saw a visible ebbing away of the political strength of organized labor, especially in the United States” (Heller 108). 6. “la consommation aliénée devient pour les masses un devoir supplémentaire à la production aliénée” (Debord 40). 7. OPEC raised the price of oil significantly in 1973 and again in 1979, and eco- nomic growth declined over the course of the decade (Heller 225). From 1974 to 1975, the international capitalist economy entered a recession that “defi- nitely brought to a conclusion the so-called golden years of the previous two decades” (227). 8. The recession “was followed by a period of stagnation punctuated by bouts of persistent inflation,” and this economic stagnation “ended in another sharp recession in 1981–82” (Heller 227). 9. In her introduction to the “Reading for Form” (2000) special issue of Modern Language Quarterly, Susan J. Wolfson alludes to one scholar who, “though meaning to be hospitable to a formalist criticism refreshed for the 1990s, slipped into negative description and defensiveness” (2). Such defensiveness is not surprising, she notes, since “[t]he most influential stories in criticism typi- cally proffered the narrowest versions of literary form to serve accounts of its covert work” (2). In Wolfson’s narrative of methodological rupture in a “post- (and anti-) New Critical climate” (3), critics rejected the “social isolationism” and “intellectual constraints” of formalist criticism, as well as “the impulse to regard [form] as the product of a historically disinterested, internally coherent aesthetics” (2). 10. “Hé, monsieur, un roman est un miroir qui se promène sur une grande route. Tantôt il reflète à vos yeux l’azur des cieux, tantôt la fange des bourbiers de la route” (Stendhal 479). 11. In an interview with Charles Bernstein, Antin explained that, though he “was closer to the New York School” than the Beat poets, and though he “shared a world with John Ashbery and Frank O’Hara” in the sense that all three were art critics, he did not identify with “their investment in a kind of urban dandyism. Or their kind of connoisseurship” (Antin and Bernstein 96). With regard to “the next generation of poets,” Antin told Bernstein, “I suppose I had most in common with the so-called Language poets, though I was mov- ing away from a procedural poetry just at the time you were all starting to work at it” (97). But if Antin’s formal methods were similar to those of the Language poets, his philosophical commitments were not, and he referred to the Language poets’ critical writings as “futile exercises based on antiquated linguistics, Marxian nostalgia and empty French and Russian theory” (97). 12. In Lukács’s words, “To posit oneself, to produce and reproduce oneself—that is reality” (15–16). Notes ● 171 1 Procedural Form: An Overview 1. In this sense, the individualist ideology of romantic poetry recalls the ideo- logical function of the abstract expressionist’s studio space: “However hum- ble, the studio is the domain of a single artist—even if other persons should occupy the space, or other functions occur there. To the extent that it is X’s studio, it is the domain of X’s authorship, the space in which a given X constructs himself as the independent creator/author of a unique product identified with his name” (Jones 3). Jones explicitly identifies elements of “the individualism and isolation of Romanticism” in abstract expressionist discourse (24). 2. Cf. Andy Warhol’s formulation, “I think everybody should be a machine” (qtd. in Jones 189). 3. By allowing for the mixing of “constraint and invention” in Language poetry, Conte seems to implicitly acknowledge the fact that proceduralism can incor- porate authorial volition: “Language poets have explored the capacity of serial- ity to accommodate the many ways beyond the logical and the sequential in which things come together. These poets also account for a significant number of the procedural forms in which constraint and invention join to reveal mean- ing and not merely to confirm a thing already understood” (Conte 280). 4. Cf. Jones’s discussion of painterly finish (9–10). 5. Branden W. Joseph notes that “By 1951, Cage’s ideas of sound and silence were further coupled with an emerging interest in Zen Buddhism, which conceived of being and nothingness not as opposed to one another but as necessarily inter- twined” (46). 6. I have tried to approximate some of the typographical effects of Mureau, but the constant changes in typeface and the justified right margin make it impos- sible here to do justice to the visual presentation. 7. See, for example, Antin’s description of his writing process in the introduction to Selected Poems (13–22). 8. See Dworkin, Language xii. 9. Of course, there are arguably no uses of language that entirely avoid politics. As Antin points out, “language is the cultural matrix in which the value systems that determine politics are held” (SP 14). 10. The quote is italicized in the original. 11. For more on the similarities between postmodern American procedural poetry and the proceduralism of digital poetics, see Glazier; in addition to the work of Jackson Mac Low, John Cage, Charles Bernstein, and Bernadette Mayer, he discusses the proceduralism of Silliman’s Tjanting and Hejinian’s My Life (128–135). 12. Funkhouser identifies the writing praxes of Dada and Oulipo as precur- sors of digital poetics (33–35). He also notes that “computer programs” are able to “emulate classical styles of poetry, written with strict parameters to engineer sonnets, renga, occasional poems, aphorisms, and other traditional forms” (34). 172 ● Notes 2 Making Poems: The “method” of Ted Berrigan’s Sonnets 1. Attridge also explains that “singularity functions like a signature” (64) a char- acteristic that ties in with my later discussion of Perloff’s notion of the poetic signature. 2. Notley’s assertion that sonnet XV proceeds “according to the formula, line 1, line 14, line 2, line 13, line 3, line 12, and so on in” (x) is, in fact, incorrect. The poem’s lines proceed according to the following reordering, from top to bottom: 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 14, 12, 10, 8, 6, 4, 2. However, Notley’s formula does partially govern the procedure in sonnet XXI. 3. Here and throughout this chapter, I am indebted to Notley’s valuable comments and annotations. 4. Moreover, unlike its syntactically normative counterpart, sonnet XV manages not to sound like a pastiche of an O’Hara poem. (One thinks, for example, of O’Hara’s “Why I Am Not a Painter”—a poem that, like sonnet LIX, involves an implicit comparison between working techniques in painting and poetry.) In “The Business of Writing Poetry,” Berrigan acknowledges his tendency to mimic O’Hara, but he also argues that The Sonnets exceed mere imitation: “In 1960 and ’61, I wrote a bunch of poems saying ‘it’s 5:15 a.m. in New York City & I’m doing this & that & now I think this & this & this, & next this hap- pens, that happens, & in conclusion I can say blank blank & blank.’ I thought I was blatantly imitating Frank O’Hara.