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)

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