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Léon Spilliaert: Also Here, Here and Here.

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.

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Susan Howe: “Prefaces are usually afterimages.”

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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?”

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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.”]

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Starve the vehicles, not the individuals.

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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.

Doodlebugs.

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!!