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A ‘Xerox Coup d’Etat’: Sophie Seita Interviews Kevin Killian about Editing Mirage and Mirage #4/Period[ical]

Edited by Kevin Killian between 1985 and 1989, the San Francisco little magazine Mirage ran for four issues; the last issue was guest-edited by Dodie Bellamy. Bellamy and Killian continued as co-editors, renaming the magazine Mirage #4/Period[ical], publishing 155 issues between 1992 and 2009. 

Sophie Seita: Can you tell me a bit about Mirage, how it began, why you started it, what you consider(ed) to be its intervention in or contribution to a then-contemporary discourse on feminism, queer politics, and theory?


Kevin Killian: Oh yes, it is a well-worn story by now. In the early ’80s there was a spate of New Narrative and gay writing and art magazines, among them Soup and Little Caesar and No Apologies, and I worked on the latter of which quite closely with its editor, the poet Bryan Monte, who now lives in Amsterdam where he runs the Amsterdam Quarterly. When Bryan began a MFA program at Brown, he left San Francisco, and took No Apologies with him. The materials I had left over, gathered for No Apologies, I used to start up a new magazine, Mirage, which was the name of our neighborhood bar in the Mission District of San Francisco.

SS: How would you describe the ‘materiality’ of Mirage, the processes of making and printing the magazine?

KK: Mirage, like No Apologies, started off as a perfect-bound magazine and would cost about $1000 an issue. That was a hefty sum for one man to raise in 1985 or 1986. I carried on like that for awhile until the fourth issue, the so called “Women’s Issue,” which grew so much my guest editor and I could not afford to print it, so we delayed publication for four years and finally caved in. My guest editor was having an intense relationship with a young man who owned his own Xerox machine and he offered to let her print it on that, so we did, “comb binding” each issue with his binding machine that punched nineteen rectangular holes in the paper and the covers. We didn’t call it “comb binding” back then, I can’t remember what the word was for it back then. But anyhow this system held up pretty well. The issue finally appeared, and Dodie Bellamy, my guest editor, wrote an introduction called “Four Years in the Making.”

For subsequent issues Dodie had the idea for her own feminist magazine which she called “Period[ical],” and the next issue was called Mirage #4/Period[ical] #1, and it became even more low rent, a Xeroxed twenty page monthly, stapled in the top left hand corner. From then on she was my co-editor. Somewhere in there we got married.

SS: If you had to characterize the magazine, or place it historically, what would you say, or how would you delimit its shape and scope and contents?

KK: Is “delimit” the act of removing limits from things, like lifting gates simultaneously in a corral, or opening doors in a boxcar? I don’t recognize the word. To characterize it I would say that it was a zine now, instead of a journal, and like all zines deliberately contingent and inarticulate, but interested in the very latest developments in art and poetry, and sexual transgression I guess. We published everything we wanted to. We would go to readings and ask people to let us print their poems in the very next issue (i.e., within a month). The novelty of this instant approach was something altogether new and appealing to writers and artists. It was rather punk you might say.

SS: Which magazines were you reading at the time of publishing Mirage? Did any magazines or other publications inspire you and Dodie to start the magazine? Would you see, for instance, Soup, HOW(ever), Chain, and Big Allis, somehow related to, or in conversation with Mirage or its later incarnation as Mirage #4/Period[ical]? I’m also particularly interested in your Women’s Issue… But perhaps you were also influenced by much earlier magazines, such as modernist magazines?


KK: The (affected?) punctuation of women’s journals like How(ever), which incidentally Dodie had a hand in designing,[1] and the Canadian—oops, now I’m forgetting the name, Sophie,[2] but it was even more goofy than How(ever)—inspired her to call her part of the thing “Period[ical].” The “period” was the idea of the KSW [Kootenay School of Writing in Vancouver, BC] poet Deanna Ferguson, always an iconoclast who asked her, “Dodie, you’re doing a zine that appears once a month, with a women’s slant? How about Period ha ha ha!” So “Period” it was, and the punctuation imps made it “Period[ical].” Yes, we were reading and participating in the other magazines of the period, though the ones you mention range widely and include some publications with much greater institutional support than ours. We patterned ourselves on the Spicer-run magazine Open Space, which was pre-planned to last only one calendar year (indeed the first issue of Mirage was called #0, to match up with Open Space #0, the “Prospectus Issue,” and our #0 was also our “Prospectus Issue,” and we appropriated the cover of Open Space #0 for our Mirage #0, a Bill Brodecky line drawing of George Stanley’s face, with the Duchampian legend, “This is not the cover of Open Space, this is a mask you can wear on your head” on it). Steve Clay and Rodney Phillips’ survey of earlier avant-garde poetry periodicals, A Secret Location on the Lower East Side: Adventures in Writing, 1960-1980: A Sourcebook of Information, credits Spicer and Fran Herndon, who edited J magazine, with beginning what they call the “mimeo revolution.” While Mirage started no revolutions, we were just one of many small publishing houses who did their best work after hours, the Xerox machine ablazing, and you might call it a Xerox coup d’etat.   We did feel we were seizing power from the corporation, therefore from the state.

SS: Would you say that Mirage was a coterie or a deliberately non-coterie magazine, or put more positively: a community magazine? If so, was this community or ‘groupness’ that the magazine might have established—or contributed to—or witnessed—conceived of more aesthetically or socially or both? In how far were your and Dodie’s friendships reflected in the editorial choices you made? Would you agree that—broadly speaking—many feminist and queer magazines from the ‘80s and ‘90s onwards attempted a greater degree of inclusivity, both in terms of the poets’ backgrounds but also in terms of aesthetics? Was there also a sense of paranoia or anxiety about this need for inclusivity?

KK: We were having a big debate about coterie at the time, for this was the period in which my life of Jack Spicer was rejected by Cal on the grounds that (according to one anonymous reader’s report) it would cater to, and only be bought by, a “coterie of California homosexuals,” which seemed so perverse an objection. If Spicer’s audience could be dismissed as a “coterie,” then long live coterie; by the mid ’90s Lytle Shaw was starting his dissertation on Frank O’Hara as a “coterie poet,” and once he started affirming it, we felt better about the word, much better. That said, we were indeed a community magazine, given out for free at readings or in our travels, and we wanted it to be a place where new poets could mingle with established ones, to break down those lines of age that continue to strangle poetry today.

For example, someone very close to me was excluded from a female poets’ group last summer, formed ad hoc to combat sexual violations within the poetry community, and the reason given was that she was then over 50. As one gets older one realizes that the prison house governing our lives separates us from kindergarten on, into separate cells of age, of “generation,” to divide us perhaps even more thoroughly than by class.

In response to “Would you agree that—broadly speaking—many feminist and queer magazines from the ‘80s and ‘90s onwards attempted a greater degree of inclusivity, both in terms of the poets’ backgrounds but also in terms of aesthetics?”:

Especially in California and especially in San Francisco, a greater inclusivity was managed by a general ignoring of aesthetics, and by and large of quality. Frankly we didn’t care whether a piece of work succeeded at all, much less having to be perfect, for SF is the land of mistakes and its art practice has always been about the contingent, the misbegotten, the experimental, the botched, the ephemeral and the freakish. We had a zine in which Barbara Guest could be found next to the poems of the school janitor. There was no shame in writing like either. Instead a vitality and a complex multivalence was born.

SS: Did you ever participate in a forum (or forum-like section) in a magazine (I’m thinking of HOW2, Raddle Moon, Chain, Poetics Journal, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, M/E/A/N/I/N/G—all of which featured such roundtables, forums, and symposia frequently)? I’d be interested to hear if you feel that such forums in a sense of solidarity among all or some participants, or whether such solidarity emerged rather from non-page-based practices and conversations. I’m also interested in establishing a lineage with earlier modernist magazines, which featured similar sections, in which editors posed questions about a magazine’s ‘project’ or ‘future’.

KK: In Mirage we did have some special issues which focused on one topic. We had one stunt, you might say, in which we mailed tons of people we wanted to write for us a Xerox of the then-rare Hotel Wentley Poems and asked them to think about it and write something about Wieners. We took a whole party of local writers to a revival of De Sica’s Terminal Station and asked them to talk about neo-realism and the Hollywood system. Not sure if this is what you have in mind. I’ll have to consult my CV to see which of the five journals above I participated in, and what I did for them. Dodie was usually asked to do everything.

SS: What were the contemporary responses to Mirage? Were there any reviews?

KK: I just remember Charles Bernstein saying that Mirage was the absolute low end of high art.

SS: What were your (and other poets’) connections with other collectives (literary/artistic and activist/political)? Did people think of themselves or others as ‘avant-garde’ in a self-consciously historical or academic way (thinking through the tradition of the historical avant-gardes), or would they have described their own or other people’s practice as ‘avant-garde’?

KK: We were in the New Narrative and as such, we were thought of as fellow travellers to all other collectives. Not for us the war on Language Poetry, or later Flarf, or whatever, upon which other poets sharpened their petards. Yes, we were in the avant-garde, but none of us were PhDs and I’m not sure about what “academic” means in terms of our thoughts about ourselves. We were outside of and opposed to the academy in general.

SS: Did you have launch parties for Mirage issues, and which readings did you go to? And how did (or did not!) these readings reflect a print-community made visible through live readings or parties or political meetings?

KK: Looking through my datebooks for the period I see that I would attend three or four readings a week, and as many art openings; it was also an intensely political period and there were other sorts of organizational meetings and demos to attend. Sometimes looking back I don’t know I got everything done, but one way was to skimp on my own writing. It took Dodie and me both many years to finish our second and third novels. I mean decades. Launch parties, none. Every reading was a launch for the latest issue of our zine which we would bundle up and take with us everywhere. We did attend the launch parties of others—a magazine like Poetics Journal, which might appear once a year. You know about the special issue of Aerial on Lyn Hejinian? It’s been in the works for over 15 years. But we ran every month, due to the luxury of being crumby.

SS: How important was it to poets, artists, and curators to involve the public? Did you see magazines (your own and those of others) as providing a public forum of sorts? Did magazines create their own public (inside and outside the publication)?

KK: I suppose we saw it as creating an audience from the public, or better yet, an assemblage, a funk-junk creation like the works of Bruce Conner or Jay DeFeo in San Francisco. We were one of the few zines for example to perform a lot of archival work. It wasn’t enough just to have men and women appearing together, or a wide racial panoply, or different ages, but we wanted to the living and the dead to appear in our pages, side by side, as though poetry was occurring in a séance.

What invigorating questions! Thank you, Sophie, for thinking of us for this.

[1] Dodie designed the HOW(ever) logo.

[2] SS: Do you mean (f.)lip? KK: Sophie, you are exactly right, I couldn’t remember the name of “f(lip)” or whatever it was. I have heard these forms of punctuation referred to as “post-structuralist” and that seems right.

IMG_0495Kevin Killian, one of the original “New Narrative” writers, has written three novels, Shy (1989), Arctic Summer (1997), and Spreadeagle (2012), a book of memoirs , and three books of stories. He has also written two books of poetry, Argento Series (2001), and Action Kylie (2008). A third appeared in February 2014—Tweaky Village, from Wonder Books. With Peter Gizzi he has edited My Vocabulary Did This To Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer (2008)—for Wesleyan University Press. Wesleyan also brought out Killian and Lew Ellingham’s acclaimed biography of Spicer in 1998. For the San Francisco Poets Theater Killian has written forty-five plays, and the anthology he compiled with David Brazil—The Kenning Anthology of Poets Theater 1945-1985—has become the standard book on the subject. Recent projects include Tagged (2013), introduction by Rob Halpern, Killian’s intimate photographs of poets, artists, writers, musicians, filmmakers and intellectuals; and forthcoming, with Dodie Bellamy, The Nightboat Anthology of New Narrative Writing 1975-1995. He teaches writing to MFA students at California College of the Arts in San Francisco. (Pictured with Dodie Bellamy. Photo by Tariq Alvi.)
SoundEye Festival CorkSophie Seita works with poetry on the page, in performance, and in video. She is the author of Meat (Little Red Leaves, 2015), Fantasias in Counting (BlazeVOX Books, 2014), 12 Steps (Cambridge: Wide Range, 2012), and i mean i dislike that fate that i was made to where (Wonder, 2015, a translation from the German of Uljana Wolf). A full-length translation of Uljana Wolf’s selected poems, for which she received a PEN/Heim award, will be published by Belladonna in 2016. Her videos and other works have been exhibited and performed in the US, UK, Ireland and Germany.  She lives in New York, previously curated the simultaneous and live-streamed ‘unAmerican Activities Transatlantic Reading Series’ between London and New York, is a curator for the Segue Reading Series, and is currently finishing her PhD on avant-garde little magazines. (Photo by Trevor Joyce.)

Silverfisted: An Interview with Deborah Landau

“I love to be frenetically busy,” says Deborah Landau, author of The Uses of the Body. In her third collection, out since April, she explores the complexities of living in a female body. In an honest discussion, Landau pondered how a woman can be defined by her biological usefulness.

Published by Copper Canyon Press, an independent, non-profit founded in 1972, which is currently based in Port Townsend, Washington. The press believes that poetry is vital to language and living and they have produced over 400 titles, including translation, anthologies, prose books about poetry, reissues of out-of-print classics and works from emerging and revered American poets.

Landau draws from her own experience and brings the reader on a journey that is sometimes dark, haunting, sensual and funny; the collection deals with traumatic subjects: aging, illness, the death of a close friend. Though the tome contains suffering, ultimately it ends on a note of hope with her daughter’s birth. Landau is the Director of NYU’s Creative Writing program. She seems too glamorous to live in Park Slope, with her husband, three kids and a dog.

Linda Kleinbub: Your poems seem very personal. How do they reflect on your own life?

Deborah Landau: My poems are distilled. They come from life, but they are not my life. It’s important that the poems to work as art, on the level of language. So the book isn’t straightforwardly autobiographical–though a lot of these things did happen.

UsesBodyCover-1Kleinbub:  I love the line in the first poem, “I don’t have a pill for that, / the doctor said.” You reference that death is inescapable. Are you focused on the negative side of aging?

Landau: There are troubling things that aren’t going to go away. Our bodies are going to wear out, we’re going to get old and die. There is nothing anyone can do to change that. My psychologist sister-in-law says I lack the ability to be in denial. But how can one integrate the simultaneity of pleasure and suffering in the world? Eventually something horrible will happen to all of us, and there’s no escaping it. I wish there were a pill for that.

Kleinbub: The book begins with a celebration. “Well look, the wedding guests are here again.”

Landau: I work in Paris each summer (directing writing programs for NYU) and one summer I lived across the street from a little synagogue.  Every day at noon there was a wedding. At first it was so charming.

Kleinbub: It is an important rite of passage, but you seem to have an irreverent attitude towards it. Your dark wit has been compared to Dorothy Parker, “Now scurry ho, before someone else / goes down on the bride,” “We’re going to swallow vodka / and slap down money.” Where did this perspective come from?

Landau: As the days wore on the weddings appeared more and more formulaic—each a kind of production featuring the same set, plot, the costumes, and characters, with virtually no variation. I was troubled by how systematic and regulated they were, the same ritual every day. The long poem that opens the book came out of the experience of watching those weddings from my window every day for a month.

Kleinbub: “Mr. & Mrs. Suffering” is filled with beautiful, lines like “He knows every road of me. / Can find the turnoff without a map.” Yet the same time there is caution, “One should make full use as possible / before times up. In Paradise / You should appreciate. Don’t squander.”

Landau: The sequence considers the pleasures and complexities of marriage and domestic life–the experience of being in a long-term monogamous relationship, the comforts of commitment, what happens to desire.

Unknown-3Kleinbub: When did you realize that you wanted to be a poet?

Landau: When I was thirteen my mother gave me Anne Sexton’s Love Poems as a gift. I was hooked, that book was so intense. I hadn’t seen poetry like that before.

Kleinbub: I know your mother died when you were in your late 20’s, my mother passed away when I was in my early 30’s.

Landau: It never gets any easier! We still need these people. I still miss her terribly.

Kleinbub: What are the advantages working with a small press?

Landau: I feel very fortunate to be a Copper Canyon author. They have an amazing list, make beautiful books, and excel at getting the books out to readers. The staff there is amazing, they take a great deal of care with the books they do, and it’s a pleasure to work with them.

Kleinbub: Can you describe your experience working with Copper Canyon Press versus working with other publishing houses?

Landau: My first book (Orchidelirium) was selected by Naomi Shihab Nye as winner of the Robert Dana Anhinga Prize for poetry and published by Anhinga press. Most first books of poetry find their way into the world through a contest — it’s exciting to win, but after that you’re sort of on your own. I was grateful when my second book (The Last Usable Hour) was accepted by Michael Wiegers. It’s been nice to feel part of a publishing house in a more ongoing way.

Kleinbub: Does teaching summers in Paris affect your writing?

Landau: I’m in Paris twice a year (a month in the summer, 10 days in January) to direct two programs for NYU: an undergraduate intensive and a low-residency MFA. It’s inspiring to be in that beautiful city, surrounded by writers, and the change of scenery and shift in routine is revitalizing. It’s great to get away, and I have more time to write while I’m there–I’m working, but don’t also have to take care of three kids, make everyone’s breakfast, and walk the dog.

Kleinbub:  Your book begins focused on fears about aging and death, “It scares me to watch / a woman hobble along / the sidewalk, hunched adagio,” yet “Late Summer” is about the miracle of birth.

Landau: That sequence came in a headlong rush. I was on a train (coming home from AWP Boston) and had an incredibly vivid sense memory of the totally unexpected conception and birth of my daughter. Then when I got home someone had sent me the video of Lana Del Rey’s “Video Games”. The visual imagery and mood is nostalgic old Hollywood, and for some reason it triggered something for me.  I wrote that last long sequence. While most of the book was written while I was in Paris, that section was written in Brooklyn.

Kleinbub: Can you describe the memories that emerged?

Landau: I’d returned home from Paris, and hadn’t seen my husband for a month. Our boys were away at camp, we had a few days to relax by ourselves, and inadvertently created our daughter. The whole thing felt so strange, I mean, you expect terrible surprises in life, like a cancer diagnosis, and then this beautiful thing happens. It was a marvelous surprise, this unexpected surging up of life force.

Kleinbub: In your poems about your daughter you make her into a foreign object, “stain purpling the white field,” and “bald and silverfisted.” Were you trying to emulate Sylvia Plath?

Landau: I’ve read a lot of Plath and the influence is there, of course–though I didn’t set out to “emulate” her. I hope it’s more subtle than that! Pregnancy is surreal – in some ways it does feel like a kind of alien invasion. It’s all very science fiction to have something growing inside you, and then to have a person emerge fully formed from your body.

Kleinbub: I loved this passage from “Late Summer:”   

What climate then immodest

fully boarded was I and set off with her—


Xanax Vermox rivulets radiation—ferried her flighting

to California to grow rioting drunk and dance at M’s wedding


she just a pale and puny welled inside me


without visa without a pretty box

dollface-down I could have scorched


her could have drown her could have crushed her

not knowing veined was she

and my blood rich and alcohol.


She flipped around in there.

I slept off the buzz in my hotel.


Landau:  Thank you. I’d been to a wedding in California, and gotten quite drunk. I didn’t know I was pregnant. If I’d known, I’d have skipped the Xanax and cocktails.

Kleinbub: So the last line “I slept off the buzz in my hotel” is literal?

Landau: Yes. But my daughter turned out fine, thank goodness.

Kleinbub: I know you still miss your mom, but how do you feel the new mother/ daughter relationship in your life?

Landau: It’s wonderful. I lost my mother, I had two sons. I’d always wanted a daughter and then she showed up.  She’s just turned three. She is lovely and affectionate. My sons adore her, we all do. She’s been the sweetest addition to our family.


Unknown-1Deborah Landau is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently The Uses of the Body (Copper Canyon Press, 2015) and The Last Usable Hour,a Lannan Literary Selection published by Copper Canyon in 2011. Her first book, Orchidelirium, was selected by Naomi Shihab Nye for the Robert Dana Anhinga Prize for Poetry. Her work has appeared in The Paris ReviewTin HousePoetry, The New YorkerBoston ReviewThe Kenyon ReviewThe Wall Street JournalThe New York Times, and elsewhere. Her poems have been widely anthologized in places such as The Best American Erotic PoemsPlease Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poets for the Next Generation (Viking 2015), Not for Mothers Only, (Fence Books), Women’s Work: Modern Poets Writing in English, and translated into Mongolian, Romanian, Russian, and Greek.
She was educated at Stanford, Columbia, and Brown, where she was a Jacob K. Javits Fellow and received a Ph.D. in English and American Literature. For many years she co-directed the KGB Bar Monday Night Poetry Series and co-hosted the video interview.
Linda Kleinbub is a mentor at Girls Write Now, an organization that works with at-risk high school girls who have a passion for writing. Her work has appeared in The New York Observer, Our Town – Downtown, Statement of Record, Short, Fast and Deadly and The Best American Poetry Blog.  Her poem “Like that of the Purple Orchid in My Garden” will appear in the forthcoming book Grabbing the Apple: An Anthology of New York Women Poets. She is also a painter and photographer.