Diluted in scattered thought—

Romare Beardens collage “Pittsburgh Memory” (1964).

I s’ppose I will not prate along too much (not I!), but the other evening while engaged drastically in lyrical-eyeings of the public-mannerisms of people (feeling more strange than Hiroshima Day), I scribbled this down on a small piece of paper: Odd diadem, memorable bloaks without cloaks—Walking down the street, “no additional action required”—The “looks” on people’s faces, expecting a response after someone has already explained the answer to them—The sky could be my entire mass this day, sweaters of clouds and bulging hand-veins and pinky-toe spider-bites—I need a shower, I want to get out of this place, vendors of floating, of disappearing without an “act.” —“If life is one long delicious process” why are there so many rotten eggs and apples that try and spoil it for the ones that know better? What is Knowing Better? What silly questions. Must keep myself entertained. The plastic surgeon in the film Dark Passage says to Bogie as he prepares to get plastic surgery: “I’ll make you look as if you’ve lived.”

Frank O'Hara: “These aren’t tears anyway, just eye gunk”

Driving down the highway, like a lost puppy, ding-dinging of concentration, this evening, saw the full moon hovering, realized that the moon is always “full.” A kind of calm comeuppance. Munching like Edvard Munch.

Attempting to explain a dream to someone is like trying to explain color to a blind person.

And here is a thought: Gather all the dead poets’ living relatives, speak with them spookily in favor of misbegotten realism. In one guise or another. Gather the poets’ relics, their out-of-leaping zombie-possibles (imagining Verlander as white (?) as John Kasper)—there is no city of comparable size to the poet’s heart, his swollen crest, universe-wide, panorama-vastness, everywhere in motion, to be aped in thinking or raped of thought, blood excited by words, boils, language tearing through me like the power of hydraulic rams’ horns. In this sleepy town I sleep, while the candle-makers are fiery, while a middle-aged couple walks their dog around the neighborhood on a repetitive loop, while Hollywood intoxicates with their paddle-engined films—the baker, the butcher, the lawyer, the doctor, the street artist, the pawnbroker, the middle-man all fashion in their giddy states while I sleep, asleep beyond normal standards, awoken to the wondering lights and ghostly music of this poetry within, scratched out in waxed grooves, prism inscriptions like an interrupted séance.

My neck grows tighter than jodhpurs! Who’s pulling on my vines, this fertilized garden of my uncomfortable Morticia Addams-like snippets of flower-buds? This day, each day, to appreciate the vital revelations of these magnificent proportions, multitudes of meticulous attention given to grandiose dimensions, as intense as an angry man’s drive, like a little Irish steam packet rocking forcefully amidst grey air in a wild sea, driving the continents flippo. I admit that I have forgotten that this was any text at all. This, a mere sketch, diluted in scattered thought.

There is no such thing as “a long day” (like, “Oh, it’s going to be such a long day!”). Every day has the same time as it did yesterday and the day before that, and will be that way tomorrow and days after that. Eerie and Surprising go airbourne, which makes me wistful, feeling like a tidal flow, and “All there is to do now is scream.” Fred Astaire, Red Skelton? Someone.

My attitude is this: I will leave a note for anyone in a guest room, just as I will leave my fragrance upon the air or a smile upon a stranger. Spoke with a woman that once met The Herman Hermits. She had signed up to win a chance to meet the band, and lo and behold, she won. “They were quite nice.”

Just love what you do and it may love you back, depending on the box of chocolates, and the window’s eyes, like the widow’s eyes, stalks the country-side, or the city’s sidewalks, all of the other buildings and avenues and street corners, perhaps the green meadows, brown fields, industrial gunk. The window may also see the angry shapes, the foreheads and upturned mouths. This is the moment where the philosopher should stay wholly silent as if there were dimensions to change, as if there were seasons to “holding one’s tongue” (not the horses), and the horses gallop like the stillness of seamstresses that stress silence in their concentrative strokes. I am alone this night, and every tiny subtle noise sounds overexaggerated, rocket-blasts, over-animate. Mind of surround-sound. Bendable balloons. Vocabulary pulled from my throat. Binocular-vision, dream slit open, peculiar extremities, love-it-or-loathe-it-type smithereens.

Exoskeletal wireless interface with the mind of a dolphin.



] [

O, what space to begin this, what “peyzing” anew, this beating-heart-obstreperousness, to take the sting out of what extends into my aching heart, to be thought of as left to be Considered, like the “bearded Syrian” or like newly-erected monuments, these moments of breaking off a possible friendship because it is all for the better, after-images of heartache, of being able to touch someone with words, with how one lives their life, passionate loyalty, the naivety of certain ones, sweetness touched with tinges of rebellious folly (God testing me, realizing now what Ecclesiastes 7:26 means: “And I found that [of all sinful follies none has been so ruinous in seducing one away from God as idolatrous women] more bitter than death is the woman whose heart is snares and nets and whose hands are bands. Whoever pleases God shall escape from her, but the sinner shall be taken by her”), of honey-sweet speech, intentions becoming known within the eyes of the mind and heart rather than of the flesh.

To be an Another. An “another” of itself, to “is,” to write isn't about the juice of things, what route would be naked if I could veer naked in its path, or what obstacle should be self-appointed; subjectivism is subject to deceleration. Mass empties itself of our “space,” gravity's syllabry increases, vanishes, we fall upward with glee, bits of rapture, like some dime-a-dozen crime in the city. To talk Force. To froth out fact, like my grandmother’s hands when stirring cake-batter in a large bowl. All limitations are off, thus the poem is confused. I am walking my memory, like one would a dog; unabridged and without questions. Nothing to be contained within any possible answer.


Susan Howe: “Prefaces are usually afterimages.”


Interesting how certain individuals do not like to wave back after I have waved at them. People are overly-paranoid these days, afraid to wave back, afraid to say hello or goodbye, all within the neighborhood. I think that some people are shocked to realize that someone has waved at them, merely because it is something that does not occur a lot these days, so they do not wave back for fear of breaking through the smog of this era. I have read to my skin. I have to read to my skin. I have red skin after showering. Yesterday, tomorrow has no secret for today, yesterday. Feeble direction, my heart is an owl's nest, empty in the night, emptying myself when it is quiet, and in the daytime I am bubbling at the surface. My lips are seeking expression, discarded words left straining within the s-plexus, earth-freshy flocks of land animals. I am left a-buzzing, unfitted, but living on. Never still enough to hear it. Nothing is ever still. Go learn to see this gurgling, round and round the Go suggests that the mass is elevated into gloriousness. Everything is cheap and useless when I compare it with God.

I feel hyper-anonymous and hyper-isolated at times when I am walking around in public. There are things that often leave a certain quiet in my eyes. The voice of my poems do not have my voice. There is no exit, and there is no entrance. Hearing someone talking very fast, at first sounding no more than a repeated sigh, until you tune in closely and you can hear their voice so intensely that you can hear their cranium cracking. All of these blank walls. They eat me up. These blank spaces leaving me blank, so I fill them with words to describe it, like Sound that “has no legs to stand on.” Hemingway: “I always try to write on the principle of the iceberg. There is seven-eights of it underwater for every part that shows. Anything you know you can eliminate and it only strengthens your iceberg. It is the part that doesn’t show. If a writer omits something before he does not know it then, there is a hole in the story.” I love visiting random chat-rooms to see all of the butchered text there. Things like, “i allready give up somkeing” and “is he smoking smothing bad?”


Huxley: I am and, for as long as I can remember, I have always been a poor visualizer. Words, even the pregnant words of poets, do not evoke pictures in my mind. No hypnagogic visions greet me on the verge of sleep. When I recall something, the memory does not present itself to me as a vividly seen event or object. By an effort of the will, I can evoke a not very vivid image of what happened yesterday afternoon, of how the Lungarno used to look before the bridges were destroyed, of the Bayswater Road when the only buses were green and tiny and drawn by aged horses at three and a half miles an hour. But such images have little substance and absolutely no autonomous life of their own. They stand to real, perceived objects in the same relation as Homer's ghosts stood to the men of flesh and blood, who came to visit them in the shades. Only when I have a high temperature do my mental images come to independent life. To those in whom the faculty of visualization is strong my inner world must seem curiously drab, limited and uninteresting. This was the world - a poor thing but my own - which I expected to see transformed into something completely unlike itself.

[Also . . . “Place and distance cease to be of much interest. The mind does its Perceiving in terms of intensity of existence, profundity of significance, relationships within a pattern.”]


Starve the vehicles, not the individuals.


Miro Sazdic-Löwstedt: I love you, means nothing / Use your imagination and tell what you think about me.

I could stretch your melancholic-weeping into a joy-lit Agnus Dei choir of voices, via Penderecki. News! I . . . Nothing I can hear. I doubt if you could pick them up from here anyway. Delicate lace curtains floating like ghosts at the window . . . “What a nice hand you write!”

The clock is deceiving me, like some dim neon aura on the city streets that is filtered by an array of cigarette smoke in the night-air. When I see a dying flower, or dead flower, I just want to wrap it up in bandages and cup it like a loved one. Stuck on it, worse than L. Richie. Pouring rain while listening to John Cage. J. Latta: “Belly-big moon. If Heraclitus claims the sun’s width is that of a human foot, the half-moon tonight’s exactly the hemispheroidal size of a “carrying” woman’s belly . . . ”

People saying “I like the crop” or “nice crop” (&c.) when a photograph hasn’t been cropped at all, but instead merely composed a particular way.


Launching o f f.

Just like this, words launch from my tongue, angelic, wingful and Full.
Or: It’s alive! It’s alive! It’s ALIVE!!


Isidore Isou

Rimbaud [As translated by Paul Schmidt, and published in 1976 by Harper Colophon Books, Harper & Row, the poem reads, in part]: “I invented colors for the vowels! - A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. - I made rules for the form and movement of every consonant, and I boasted of inventing, with rhythms from within me, a kind of poetry that all the senses, sooner or later, would recognize. And I alone would be its translator. I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.”

I had been pondering women in surrealism in new ways recently, without conventional wisdom. Those like Leonora Carrington, Claude Cahun, Nancy Cunard, Nelly Kaplan, Joyce Mansour, Meret Oppenheim, Valentine Penrose, Gisèle Prassinos and Kay Sage. Their surrealitude is not a stone, as some would have suggested at one time.

I just cannot get into the television shows of this generation. After having been exposed at such a young age to the classics (thanks to my uncle), I simply find that the shows of Now-ness are rather weak for me, in many facets. Amazing how I tend to be “living in the past” when I was not even born at the times that these classics were being aired. I feel like the caucasian-version of Harry Belafonte.

Blunders within people’s speech, their actions, their unhappiness. Brings to mind the development of monumental art, of law, of commerce, of agriculture in late B.C. (southern Gaul, to be more precise, perhaps, of which had attained a high level of agriculture). There has always been a kind of Tension in every civilization, the rise and fall of Kingdoms, &c. and when the harmony with the Greeks gave way to violence (to the Gauls, of course), the Gauls, obviously aware of their power, felt too restricted by the barriers the Greeks placed between them and the Mediterranean (the great avenue to wealth in the ancient world). Greek warships commanded the mouths of the Rhone and Greek coastal fortresses denied the Gauls the good harbors. Fighting broke out (naturally) about 200 B.C. and continued for eighty years. In the end, neither the Gauls nor Greeks won, however. In 125 B.C., when Marseilles was under heavy attack, the Greeks requested aid from Rome. The Romans crushed the Gauls in a hard war that lasted four years, but when it was all said and done, they didn't leave. The rich hinterlands of Marseilles became the Provinicia Romania. Anyhow, a classic episode in conquest was taking place, but few could have suspected that the Greeks, as one historian put it, made “the most stupid blunder in history” by inviting the Romans into their territory. Even when the legions advanced northward under Caesar and conquered the rest of Gaul (between 58 and 51 B.C.) it must have seemed, as slaves and booty (ha) accumulated in the Provincia, that the Romans wished only the welfare of the Greeks. But, as civil war began in Italy in 49 B.C., Marseilles made a FATAL blunder: it sided with Pompey against Julius Caesar. A siege and two defeats at sea brought Marseilles to its knees. Caesar then went in and created plenty more wrecking and wreaking of havoc.

But, in any event, a sudden spark of thought leading to other historical measures, guides me backward again. The point?

Grumpy, selfish, avaricious people climb tier by tier up their mountain of misery.

There. Distilled adolescence—obsequious onslaught, slugged by light, or a slug in light. One that is cut off from a life of human sympathies. “The kelet have an especial fondness for the human liver.” I have been and I have Been. The internal experience is stripped down and raw. The external is a sort of practical personification.

My room has an odd assortment of mementos and objects. Hemingway used to keep track of his daily progress, so as to not kid himself, he said.

Non-healthy minds for the holidays. As plain as sere as barren rockpiles. I am case sensitive like a password, wild quadrupeds. Spectators spy out the eye, the way a mother was/is a voyager. I am my own festival. The art of noticing. Grateful breaths of air. I will suggest it in the next preface (wherever or whenever that may be). My heartache, like destroying a bee’s nest. Afterwards, a swarm. Or, the antbed, stepped on, “no problem” they say, and begin rebuilding, remodeling immediately.

“Poetry is neither tempest nor tornado. It is a majestic and fertile river.” —Isidore Ducasse . . . “The deepest river makes the least noise.” —Jean du Vergier de Hauranne.

My sister had been laughing at the television while eating Zaxby’s. In my reflection, I look for my voice. Undeterred transformation, predominance, wrinkled-bending. In every human being’s heart: a lure of wonder: the unfailing childlike appetite of what is next, flexibility of the knee. Suspected “shortage” of error: love, friendship, crosswords. The deepest songs of the heart. What they sing, ha, marked with flame, whirled on high, cinders to shrivel the strain!

Does the early bird always get the worm?

This feeling of nervous jacketflaps within the stomach, a compulsion of margins, these dictatorships in the workplace, these unappreciative forces colliding, feeling like I could be rooted out of time, no calender to expel the equinox. I need to be in a place filled with lovers and sunshine, without rancid partiality and drops of melancholic sighs, all expounded in blue Picassos, no love, no compassion, always psychologically-knee’d like a soccer player, rebels running around like James Mason in Odd Man Out—and this is what I am: the odd man out, this hyper-anonymousness when walking around in public, altered by the jittery waves of condensed cramps of the Big Wig’s voice. I could bow like a Knight, but receive sword-piercings into the shoulders, no gentle taps, no generous technique. I feel like Dallapiccola who, after hearing Debussy, stopped composing, to give this influence ample time to sink in, except that I feel de-composed, wrapped up and threaded into the angry spider’s web, beaming eyes, targeted with interlocking eyes, two volcanoes flaming outward at my composition! Must I flee? Blow the roof off of this data-burning tidal wave. I would leave behind another carving of my space, to rollercoaster upward, craving no return, to soar like the lack of a plot, bursting through the ball-and-chain with strategies and new lessons.

Thankfully I now have the upper-hand.

Littré: “Man is an unstable compound.” Sports players that put their hands to their ears after they have made some amazingly-awesome play, always reminds me of Hulk Hogan. What is within the emergence from the prehistory of daily life? (attitude matches his wardrobe / uglier than sin.—Mos Def).


Then, this overwhelming greatness:

Manifesto of Lettrist Poetry by Isidore Isou, 1942: MANIFESTO OF LETTERIST POETRY: A Commonplaces about Words

Pathetic I: The flourishing of bursts of energy dies beyond us. All delirium is expansive. All impulses escape stereotyping.

Still I: An intimate experience maintains curious specifics.

Pathetic II: Discharges are transmitted by notions. What a difference between our fluctuations and the brutality of words. Transitions always arise between feeling and speech.

Still II
: The word is the first stereotype.

Pathetic III: What a difference between the organism and the sources. Notions - what an inherited dictionary. Tarzan learns in his father's book to call tigers cats. Naming the Unknown by the Forever.

Still III: The translated word does not express.

Pathetic IV: The rigidity of forms impedes their transmission. These words are so heavy that the flow fails to carry them. Temperaments die before arriving at the goal (firing blanks). No word is capable of carrying the impulses one wants to send with it.

Still IV: WORDS allow psychic alterations to disappear. Speech resists effervescence. Notions require expansion to equivalent formulas. WORDS Fracture our rhythm by their Assassinate sensitivity, mechanism, Thoughtlessly uniform fossilization, tortured inspiration, stability Twist tensions and aging Reveal poetic exaltations as useless. Create politeness. Invent diplomats. Promote the use of analogies. Substitute for true emissions.

Pathetic V: If one economizes on the riches of the soul, one dries up the left-over along with the words.

Still V: Prevent the flow from molding itself on the cosmos. Form species in sentiments. WORDS Destroy sinuosities. Result from the need to determine things. Help the elderly remember by forcing the young to forget.

Pathetic VI: Every victory of the young has been a victory over words. Every victory over words has been a fresh, young victory.

Still VI: Summarize without knowing how to receive. It is the tyranny of the simple over the long-winded. WORDS Discern too concretely to leave room for the mind. Forget the true measures of expression: suggestions. Let infrarealities disappear. Sift without restoring.

Pathetic VII: One learns words as one learns good manners. Without words and manners it is impossible to appear in society. It is by making progress in words that one makes progress socially.

Still VII: Kill fleeting evocations. Slow down short-cuts and approximations. SPEECH Is always vice-versa for not being identical. Eliminates solitary individuals who would like to rejoin society. Forces men who would like to say “Otherwise” to say “Thus.” Introduces stuttering.

Pathetic VIII: The carpentry of the word built to last forever obliges men to construct according to patterns, like children. There is no appreciation of value in a word. Still VIII: Words are the great levellers.

Pathetic IX: Notions limit opening onto depths by merely standing ajar.
Still IX: Words are family garments. Poets enlarge words every year. Words already have been mended so much they are in stitches.

Pathetic X: People think it is impossible to break words.
Still X: Unique feelings are so unique that they can not be popularized. Feelings without words in the dictionary disappear.

Pathetic XI: Every year thousands of feelings disappear for lack of a concrete form.
Still XI: Feelings demand living space. How remarkable the poet’s disheartened absorption in words. Things and nothings to communicate become daily more imperious.

Pathetic XI: Efforts at destruction witness to the need to rebuild.

Still XII: How long will people hold out in the shrunken domain of words?

Pathetic XIII: The poet suffers indirectly: Words remain the work of the poet, his existence, his job.

Destruction of WORDS for LETTERS

ISIDORE ISOU . . . Believes in the potential elevation beyond WORDS; wants the development of transmissions where nothing is lost in the process; offers a verb equal to a shock. By the overload of expansion the forms leap up by themselves.
ISIDORE ISOU . . . Begins the destruction of words for letters.
ISIDORE ISOU . . . Wants letters to pull in among themselves all desires.
ISIDORE ISOU . . . Makes people stop using foregone conclusions, words.
ISIDORE ISOU . . . Shows another way out between WORDS and RENUNCIATION: LETTERS. He will create emotions against language, for the pleasure of the tongue. It consists of teaching that letters have a destination other than words.
ISOU . . . Will unmake words into their letters. Each poet will integrate everything into Everything . . . Everything must be revealed by letters. POETRY CAN NO LONGER BE REMADE.
ISIDORE ISOU IS STARTING A NEW VEIN OF LYRICISM. Anyone who can not leave words behind can stay back with them!

The Order of Letters

This does not mean destroying words for other words. Nor forging notions to specify their nuances. Nor mixing terms to make them hold more meaning. But it does mean TAKING ALL LETTERS AS A WHOLE; UNFOLDING BEFORE DAZZLED SPECTATORS MARVELS CREATED FROM LETTERS (DEBRIS FROM THE DESTRUCTION); CREATING AN ARCHITECTURE OF LETTRIC RHYTHMS; ACCUMULATING FLUCTUATING LETTERS IN A PRECISE FRAME; ELABORATING SPLENDIDLY THE CUSTOMARY COOING; COAGULATING THE CRUMBS OF LETTERS FOR A REAL MEAL; RESUSCITATING THE JUMBLE IN A DENSER ORDER; MAKING UNDERSTANDABLE AND TANGIBLE THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE AND VAGUE; CONCRETIZING SILENCE; WRITING THE NOTHINGNESS. It is the role of the poet to advance toward subversive sources. the obligation of the poet to advance in the black and burdened depths of the unknown; the craft of the poet to open one more treasure-room door for the common man. There will be a poet's message in new signs. The ordering of letters is called: LETTERISM. It is not a poetic school, but a solitary attitude. AT THIS MOMENT: LETTERISM = ISIDORE ISOU. Isou is awaiting his successors in poetry! (Do they already exist somewhere, ready to burst forth into history through books?) EXCUSES FOR WORDS INTRODUCED INTO LITERATURE . . . There are things which are existent only in the strength of their name . . . there are others which exist, but lacking a name are unacknowledged. Every idea needs a calling card to make itself known. Ideas are known by the name of their creator. It is more objective to name them after themselves. LETTERISM IS AN IDEA THAT WILL BE LAMENTED BY ITS REPUTATION Letterics is a material that can always be demonstrated. Letterics seeds already existing: NONSENSE WORDS; WORDS WITH HIDDEN MEANINGS IN THEIR LETTERS; ONOMATOPOEIAS. If this material existed before, it didn't have a name to recognize it by. Letterics works will be those made entirely out of this element, but with suitable rules and genres! The word exists and has the right to perpetuate itself. ISOU IS CALLING ATTENTION TO ITS EXISTENCE. It is up to the Letterist to develop Letterism. Letterism is offering a DIFFERENT poetry. LETTERISM imposes a NEW POETRY. THE LETTERIC AVALANCHE IS ANNOUNCED.

|. . . , . . . , . . .|

In that kind of ocean.

Fleeing like E.T.

Frantisek Kupka, The Yellow Scale (1907)



Anna Karina

Yester-“ago,” wrote: I instinctively placed a beautiful swollen glacial river within my inflamed baby of a heart, and I could charm a banana, as if it were like some gothic strangeness to willfully construct new “living spaces.” Actually living,

everything breathing like software, the ridiculous hum of a machine feels plausible. Technology has pulled the veil from off of its eyes and is using mankind like some Little Bo-Peep. But this “bride” keeps her name. There were times

when I would often inflate my sense of worth, like some lucious thigh that changes your perception when you realize one's heart is like a cruel thunder, a mass of synth-squiggles, expressed in the worst of terms. This, this, is reaching, with

temporal control, ecclesiastical concerns w/ both sides of the barn, redless, like old Mexican songs, voices of half-whine and half-coo, restless. I celebrate my birth each day, the service of the good, and for the record, I dislike certain

psychologists, and perhaps this is why R. never responded back after I quoted Nabokov who called Freud a Viennese Quack. Later, the unsubmissive window opened in my heart, like blue eyes hinting at a Scandinavian,

like listening to a Socratic seminar and struggling to widen my palms afterwards. Yesterday, O jesterday, there were specks in my eyes after meeting her, this her, this onda luminosa, eternal world-beautyin those eyes, that smile

(operating a smile seems like something she could do with her eyes), silky smoothe, my heart wouldn’t settle down, needed the Peace Corps after I left the building, an unexplainable exegesis, a Paean of hemisphereless (heavenly) light, an eloquent verandah

where I sit and wait for another moment like that in the soft city. Sweet, effecient lines. Later, much of the same disappointment, same heartache.


Listening to Robert Ashley’s “She Was A Visitor.” On The Brink of Space Dominance. Combining historic stills. I just collided—exploded—into myself. Now, tacks are all over the walls.

Janelle Wisehart sd that my photography reminded her of Alfred Hitchcock films.


“I’m bad to the bone / but x-rays can’t even see this.” (Binary Star)


Cornias of corn or cornucopia. One more swig of the last cold drop of coffee. Seeing two bats fly in front of the full moon, or perhaps that is merely the moon wearing raybans. “Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul.” (Edward Abbey) “I credit clouds when wind produces rains. / A sober, sensate art provides us facts / That eyes and ears believe in, swift, untaxed.” (Boileau) Ooo, flew, went my heart, out of my chest. — Poor muse, the pettiest (prettiest) poetical muse now rendered as receding grey clouds, uncurvy status, like a dirty politician, a time capsule follow

-s suit. I walked around a foreign city once, years ago, felt like sky-rocketing out of the subway midday. The same, sky-rocketing out of this world, a muse that has just lost his/her blurb of supplementary info, escapes to approach broader things, like some genre-loving whistle-blower that ignores the liars, cheaters and swindlers. My hermit-fancied cove touches the romantic in me, to imbue ordinary objects as more impeccably-valid than awkward poignance . . . this is poetry! I had a dream that Jay Leno was a floating beautous ice cream truck; but as he floated closer to me, he scolded me over my lack of a fascination with Bukowski. My “Character Density” is in the offing. I am bolting out of this daylight like a late-night thriller. Anti-Catholic nastiness was stirring around her fake halo, chainsawed in half by her flaming ego, the kind of person that could easily be picked on and pick-pocketed. Manga-punk snobbish children, talking back, talking smack to their mothers. There is always a sensuous audio-environment around kind people. The perfect focus, like a hidden camera in a bathroom. Paradise Lost, I have found you!


Moving slowly in one direction, quickly; the cycle continues in the dream.


Certain lines of poetry crashing into me like on the lines of a shore. Thinking of Henry Miller's The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. Certain poets, as W.H. Auden predicted in the thirties for the years after the war, are “exploding like bombs.” Hemingway: “You can write any time people will leave you alone and not interrupt you. Or rather you can if you will be ruthless about it. But the best writing is certainly when you are in love. (...) Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure, only death can stop it. (...) Worry destroys the ability to write. Ill-health is bad in the ratio that it produces worry which attacks your subconscious and destroys your reserves.”

Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (29 August 1780 – 14 January 1867)


More free-flopping rambling—

Peter Tscherkassky, FILM STILLS

“I actually like the lack of a head here.”

Material—start with the classics by affecting a scary-movie-type growl full of fresh holes.

You get the idea: art is nothing.

Growing accustomed to the sun setting sooner. I had thought that I had fell in love with the shutting of the obscure recesses of giddy grammatically-totalitarian-mathematics altogether (just the trunk of it all), but there are certain days where I feel as though I am standing athwart in the path of babydolls that have “I love you!”-buttons.

Confucius culled the poetry of China for 300 odes that he believed were crucial.

Those that cater to pre-adolescent fantasies dive into a display of “humanism”—discretion enabled—the thrill is gone, but it still bobs up and down and is shiny like Linux desktops. We are here on Earth to illuminate some things about having a one-on-one session backstage with Britney. Love is in my thoughts as basic as an ironing board, %O among them—high boots worn by Greek tragic actors. Old intellectual and cultural divisions are negations of the intertext that I may use in the upper eschelon of multiplicative poetics—feelings of cognitive dissonance when you love a particular form of unadorned insistence of respect.

Aah, as you see, I only support what I cannot see.

I told the monster under my bed “goodnight” and it merely grunted.

EE Cummings, saith via the introduction of a collection of his poems from 1938: “The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for most.” Earlier, tho’, Lloyd N. Dendinger must have been missing on the “genius of language” by misinterpreting the following: “A Plainclothesman, his entire being focussed on something just offstage to the audience’s left, stalks the invisible something minutely.” Dendinger considering this as some “delicate comedy” when perhaps the joke was on him (and everyone else). Back to the first line, I feel the same about photography, in which could be said, “The photographs to come are for you and for me and are not for most people.” But, who is “you”? Those that “understand”? Overstand. Overstanding. Overstood.

Whatever becomes inevitably butchered becomes Abrupt.

“I empty myself with light / Until I become morning.” —Charles Wright

Jean-Claude Risset must have composed Computer Suite From Little Boy - Fall (1982) precisely for me. What is within the initials, the city’s standard mountainous shoulders, arising like spiked-pads, like in video games, the people that angle themselves for the right look, the wrong way of right, the “design within design” so sayeth Philip Booth. A strange attraction to phony. Betty Boop. Science is dead. Autumn, the season of naked-skinned promiscious geographic configuration. The days go by too fast. To “fast” on time.

I feel as though I will be whisked away at any moment now via what I imagine will not happen when expecting what I want to occur. The air is a part of everything. Rash on left cheek. The trees are yellow. My long-sleeves are off-yellow. I am always On, like the beating heart of a Conquistador, or the suede palms of my hands, like musical instruments, delicately gripped. Tonight, the temperature will drop, the way a heart does when filled with sorrow. Winds up in the belly, winding.

I go to sleep, hoping to see you. This is the only way.

Concrete and mild rivulets, this city’s mouth, like Polish mothers, violet-indigo, stone-gray sky, reflections in pools of water on the road, seeing this from a window, the light behind falls in love with my back. I roam large areas of wooded-spaces, as if this were a zoo. Immature adults still sucking their thumbs. What is the relation of word-to-thing, golden-framed florescent monoprints, wilderness informs me like a warbled voice over an intercom. Every fiber of my “being” at times is idle, but with intense bonds, roads diverging in a thick wood, needing someone’s needle to pin-point me, guide me to you, you to me, refurbish this musicbox-heart, filling it up with the music that I long for.

Sometimes I think: I don’t mind telling you, if only you wouldn't leave me feeling desolate, wrestling with it.


Not the cousin.

New poem:


One of them is blind.
The Other searches
for a place to breathe
after being breathed
into existence, while
the Other rages in
the sky, falls smittenly
and faints back to the
earth, as if it had
made off with Insight
to where breath really

Poetry in my soul, like the asteroid belt. Paper lanterns. Feeling clairvoyantly non-spooky. My lips aren’t sealed, like how an ant eater's feels. The ants are poems. I was on a “midnight train to Georgia” for Halloween, which is peculiar because I live here. It feels like my left hand and arm was just placed into a meat-grinder. Lola-pop, the cat, just did “a number” on my flesh. Imagine jumping from summer directly into winter overnight, never to “fall” upon autumn. My uncle: “It is like watching a train-wreck about to happen, and there is absolutely nothing that you can do about it but sit back and dry your tears and wait for it to all happen before you.”

—blunt stillness while swallowing all glory with long ears, beating of drums in one’s mind, the tongue like a clay hut, to climb out of the stench-filled dark hole to make one’s way towards the noonday goldenlight, and then the bird lands on the window, obscures portions of the scene, like a newspaper clinging to a lightpole on a windy street and all can be heard through every house, the words, the struggle, the text that becomes splintered cut-up possibilities, and the guests are calling and their eyelids twitch unintentionally, nervous confusion, and all silence produces lessons, or lesions, and all of one’s voice afterwards becomes like soothing juicy fruits, and no one will know of you unless your tongue moves, save for those that move like you do; verses of no doubt, the end of my nose as red as a rosebud, cheeks in the cold are blushlike, and everyone is everybody, preoccupied and—

Earlier today, thought of the beautiful singing voices of flowers. The origin of the pearl necklace. Three color-receptors in the human eye. Insects sing in the crannies of rocks. A heart, larger than science; a mind, larger than thought, than imagination, the uncrossing of my eyes, like hysteria—a tribal freak-out—the sun’s “shine,” as if it needs explaining. Batting my eyes into handmade quilts, looking like a name that is “up in the lights” in the sky. Earth’s gravity gives honest answers. A personality that turns you off is like drinking sour milk that you didn’t realize was sour until it was too late. “taste my mouth in your ear” (Ginsberg)—What color is your “self”? What color are your cells? “Since of the charms, the grace, the forms of nature, the public knows only what it has absorbed from the clichés of an art slowly assimilated, . . . an original artist begins by rejecting these clichés.”

O, the smell of verb-endings, the sequences of words and nouns. Ears, drooping into bell-bottoms when I hear certain jazz music.

Olson: “these days / whatever you have to say, / leave the roots on. / Let them dangle.”

I am going places without going.

TANGO WITH COWS: Image of Haulhorsies (Kruchenykh, 1913) from Getty slideshow of Explodity (1913)