Words _here, Thoughts _there—

Self-portrait, Original woodcut, 1919. by Conrad Felixmüller (The rare pencil-signed impression annotated in pencil by the artist Holzschnitt (lower left), Selbsbildnis (center), and signed C. Felixmüller / 1920 lower right. One of Felixmüllers most iconic selfportraits from the start of his involvement with what would become the Neue Sachlichkeit / New Objectivity movement).

Imagining particulars expanding to the limit of my eye. The way fog “holds” light; beams of core-void reactivities. Lozenge under tongue, I am the lozenge under Tungsten this night (light on the face like sp’s Conrad Felixmüller) like a still life and every time I sit here, whether incidental, or consequential, there is always a purpose for misleading the eye, as if to temporarily censor, to add spirits, to squeeze the citrus from my heart, a brewery for taste. I am a well-conditioned landscape illusion, an ambient species, bypassing all mental states. Out of the window, cloudcover-low. If the fog gets any lower, heaven will become a halo over my head.

Rae Armantrout: “...if to traverse / is to envelop, / I am held / and sung to sleep.”

What to peel, what not to peel. Peel off your past, do not let it linger, or do not linger upon it, as if it is there to be cooled, as if it burns your hands as much as it burns your aching heart. Viktor Shklovsky: “Without difficulty there is no circus.” It is all in the mind. Difficulty. Not the flesh like frenzied freezes, blizzard-wind, dialogue of arm-hair rising, the orb of a dying man’s grin. What else is there, but aspirations, asphyxiations, feelings of capacity, all in the mind.

The heart is always the revivalist. What is sown is what is reaped.

I sit here doodling on a pad, even less deconstructing than cultivating what I am saying whereas the past may have never asked. The future attuned by Buzz generated like Queen Mary greeted by fawning. Finding oneself free-floating. Hubbub and endearingly-unexpected choruses like huge grins. This is Nowhere; it belongs to a creator, soundproofed. The majority of the sunset refuses to categorize a source of confusion behind these beautiful, puffy clouds.

Observation:— People are suspicious about contrasting dismay (nothing engenders failure but fewer immediate painted chests dangle with time, and more and more I become like the animals, finding out how they love). A woman said to her husband, “Wait a minute, Carl” after looking over the reciept with a disgusted look.

John Ashbery: “The balloon pops, the attention / Turns dully away.”

Hulme: “Literature a method of sudden arrangement of commonplaces. The suddenness makes us forget the commonplace.”

Observation:— LeBron James has the chin of Nicolaus Copernicus.
Observation:— The mirror is an encyclopedia. No fat, no filler, all fun.

My uncle recently informed me that he has made a film titled, LITTLE GIRL IN THE RED SWEATER. I cannot wait to see this. Overheard a little girl complaining to her mother about cramping. Her mother responds, “Oh, we’re about to go, baby, we’re about to leave.”

Clarity is fogged, we become decibel’d Us’s, the intrigue of panspectrocism. The end of classical music will never be! “Mash out” the back pain.

Caitlin W. has sent me wonderful observations in recent mailings, one of which deals with Chik-fil-a’s cow advertisements. She said: “...if a cow is smart enough to write, why wouldn’t it know how to spell? Why must we assume that they were only partially educated? I do understand the poor penmanship, because I don’t think I would write too well with hooves.” Fabulous! . . . which reminds me of something that I had written a while back in regards to something about hooves: How long their pointed hooves have / furthered my loyal admiration of visions for quests, / conclusion always hiding behind calculation. / Animals, I mean, this is what I always mean. / Animals we are, keep an eye out. / Light turns steadily, lolls, I follow / at a slow pace; backwash of evening / sifts into my skin, the coming grinçant.

A book is open in front of me about the innocent amusements of Anouilh, theater and dreams, preferences and elementary attempts at documentation. The only way to see the eye chart is to squint like an animal would, bewildered. The snow in the north perhaps still stamped to my soles, thinking of how many acres I have walked, like miles of flight hidden beneath birds’ wings and inbetween their feet, mathematics of exploration.

Not a moment ever goes by where I do not feel like I am emerging, gripping each twilight as if it were to become obsolete, sitting near the fireplace of the alphabet.

Sarah Riggs: “I wanted to write in- / to your heart but the chambers are closed.”

These days the drain in the bathtub has intensely-clogged. Whenever I take a shower, the water eventually climbs up to my ankles. Soon after, I listen to the minimal sounds that the slow dripping of the faucet creates into the water, and the drones of the slow drain that strains and aches, thinking of recording it. I never do. I observe the ripples of the water as each drop pings (reminiscent of the opening of Pink Floyd’s Echoes), and I think of placing my finger into the water as if to feel the ripples (like sonar) but . . . I never do. Instead I just keep watching, mesmerized.

Observation (several days ago): — a man trying on a black fedora that features a skull and crossbones stitched on the front. He holds himself steady as he places it upon his head. He walks away with a smirk on his face, the fedora still perched upon his head, now tilted to the left.

G K Chesterton: “Those who worship the intellect never use it; as you can see by the things they say about it. Hence there has arisen a confusion about intellect and intellectualism; and, as the supreme expression of that confusion, something that is called in many countries the Intelligentsia . . . It is found in practice to consist of clubs and coteries of people talking mostly about books and pictures, but especially new books and new pictures . . . The first fact to record about it is that what Carlyle said of the world is very specially true of the intellectual world—that it is mostly fools. Indeed, it has a curious attraction for complete fools, as a warm fire has for cats.”

Pell-mell’d Bungee-smear. Vrooooooom.

Liu Li Tun Migration by Rong Rong



Jan Mankes, Self-portrait, 1911

I mentally shrug my shoulders a lot.

. . .

The television is echoing, or is The Echo. Verdi Cries playing softly. Tonight, the air is quiet. The yard is one enormous text-well, should I jump into it, I think I should, and this means that I can bring another shirt to change in, or maybe I will wear a wig and will not doubt that this is really how to forget where you are for a moment. Restoring moods. Snapping out of it, a fantasy. Sadness ensues when I hear insults from people’s mouths, slandering others, themselves even, and nature. Those “unsightly leaves” . . . really? I apologize for them. I stepped on a group of crunchy brown leaves the other day and then apologized to them afterwards. This triggers chain-reactions for discussions in areas and subjects, when things are true, without _____ and _______. Nevermind. Just turn a blind eye.

Some people’s faces say, “Just let me feel disappointed.” Big smiles, fake smiles, smirks, grins like a villain. Pair of fragile eyes, a fragile voice, like Karen Peris from the Innocence Mission. That kind of “soft.” What needs ruthless interpretations? Unfittable dentures? Indisputable facts are disputable if you want to dive clear into controversy; the embrace of realistic acting, but poorly demarcated. My new favorite carniverous plant is the Utricularia parthenopipes. Some people should only rely on their mouths to eat and nothing else. A mouth that speaks foulness in the foul air, makes the head tight, uncontrolling words veer, crash, burn. The result of such deeds?

I spoke with a 59 year-old woman the other day that said that she was once a hippy. She told me a story: “I remember going to Canada once with a group of friends, really nothing but a bunch of herders [laughing], had long hair down to my waist, head bands, beads everywhere, and was the only one that really resembled a hippy. So, as we were about to cross the border, the security guards checked me first because they thought that I was a druggie! I wasn’t, of course, but I couldn’t blame them for checking! But then I realized that I was the only one that they had checked!”

A mouth that has never been kissed is like a seed that has never been watered. Does a seed “expect” precipitation? My eyes move to the rhythm of the beat.


Some critics, as I have noticed, are like filthy tides washed with pollution on the shore; the “time, cause and effect” go unparalleled, and the sea anemones are like great encounters with kindred spirits. You cannot contradict a fingerprint. Our bodies are traced, are “given” to us, rapt with rhythm like a train. Groucho Marx: “Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.” I am furthering my activity of Observation [from an evening several days ago]: There is a man walking down the street wearing a bright yellow jacket on a cold, grey day, pops out at me. Large banana-thing walking with a purpose; cell-phone in hand (naturally), Big Bird-ish. This is like one enormous quantity without a plot, but isn’t everything a plot? Memoirs of thought; eluding the written journal and settling for the computer’s wordpad. Another man riding on a leaf-blowing machine, bundled up so much that he looks like a ninja. What can match the voice of a beautifully-written letter? Waking in a sweat.

People always say, “I’m trying to make a difference in the world; trying to change something for the better.” But, are you really? People want to have control of the things of this world, to make a difference, to change things, but how can this be the case when one cannot even change oneself? The only true thing that we have control over is ourselves. This is the most important thing.


Elizabeth Treadwell: “the philosophical potion of / the basic understood experimental” . . . and my fave: “how long ago a girl has been / cut out of the advertisement”


When I get to be an older man, perhaps in my sixtees, I am most likely to resemble Loren Eiseley.

There should be less hope put into statues and public figures. The statue begins to decay. The internet is chewable. Focus on abstractions; those that do not break the enchantments, like dangling fluconazole over a mushroom. Be a guiding light, be ironic but honorable, be yourself. Be the ellipsis. My next project will consist of gluing sand onto a tiny white canvas. I shall call it a photograph and let it be . . . something to be carried beyond. Each Adagio that I hear is like a great roaring glow within my heart; permalinked and glossy; fingered up, reprint me as I peel off the walls of this room, certainly the plumbing should be viewable, like hidden beauty, like a bright horse disappearing into a sunset. Inexplicit feelings, always. My face shades the entire sidewalk. This is how it was one afternoon as I walked along, the sun above my head seemingly slipping words into my skull through an invisible tube made out of wormhole residue. The clouds, grey, thick as a Slavic accent. The upward tongue; imagine the cowlick. This is the sun, behind the overcast, or a deleted scene from a dream.

(“There is ambition, there is pride, there you find self-seeking, and often, again, it is a question of mere constitutional numbness, of torpor; there are beings who have no urges.”)—Some people are soured beneath breath and the knotted-heart unravels, leaving trails of fallen stars; a wounded elixir. Natural born fact Jack. Right smack dab. If I could merely squeeze the horizon together, forced to a tunnel, would this be where Method begins? Or is this purely Imagination of habit, calenders remaining calm? Somehow, bringing to mind selections from Rimbaud's Alchimie du verbe:

My turn now. The story of one of my insanities.

For a long time I boasted that I was master of all possible landscapes and I thought the great figures of modern painting and poetry were laughable.

What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, bright-colored prints; old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, the kind of novels our grandmothers read, fairy tales, little children’s books, old operas, silly old songs, the naïve rhythms of country rimes.

I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents: I used to believe in every kind of magic.

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 got used to elementary hallucination: I could very precisely see a mosque instead of a factory, a drum corps of angels, horse carts on the highways of the sky, a drawing room at the bottom of a lake; monsters and mysteries; a vaudeville’s title filled me with awe.

Play it again, Sam.

. . .

Once more, I flee.

Painting by Rosson Crow