Saturday, November 13, 2004

Original manuscript.
“The period when the kabuki spirit flourished most conspicuously was probably the last thirty years of the sixteenth century, and the outstanding exemplar was the ruler himself, Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Not only did Hideyoshi rise from humble origins to the highest power in the country--amazing even in an age of warfare and upheavals--but he deliberately defied the established conventions in every field. Like other parvenus, he delighted in wearing the trappings of the old aristocracy: he took the name Fujiwara and had himself appointed as the kampaku, or civil dictator, recalling the Heian court. He threw his energies into mastering the tea ceremony, the austere medieval rite, but enjoyed it most in the teahouse he built of solid gold. He also took pride acting in No, choosing the most difficult and lofty roles, and had special plays written at his command in which he performed as himself, a hero of legendary prowess with divine attributes.” --Donald Keene, World Within Walls (1976)

I may try this.

"I was chunky with carbon"


Friday, November 12, 2004

Spy who sat with Arafat.

"O thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate!"



Using Phosphorus (scroll down to end).

"The enemy has got a face. He's called Satan. He's in Fallujah, and we're going to destroy him." (Oh, him.)

Thinking of this also.
And this.

And, uh, this.

"The day was not all destruction. As the Marines fought their way through a town seemingly empty of civilians, it was a surprise when the troops leaped into a house during a firefight to find a confused and elderly man seated on the front porch. He was dressed in brown pajamas and he was alone. The Marines gathered around him, with the bullets zinging past.
"Afwan," he said in Arabic, the word for "excuse me." "Afwan."
The Marines moved on and left him standing on the porch."

--Dexter Filkins


Pallid choir, irrational night
dumbfounds you in your ennui waltz;
forks will nonplus your languor myrrh
with roughshod jib. What’s this posh thing?

An abyss ago, basilisk
moons spool loops, and kinky rainbow.
Six is all: without indigo
nor toatsy warmth in our top kiln.

It is Obviously Gods Will kiln
runs cold. Quaint thoughts fly. Cryptic pain
but rightful mood. No pinko night
nor high comma snips this rainbow.

Drink rot stool agar for your mind
tricks. Urban patrols a good thing
too long coming, will carry us
in mushy arms of basilisk.


Marrow of union stalks this glass
circus, and sanguinary waltz.
Paint it with your last indigo
and know what is taught by glum myrrh.

Nor camps nor avail not myrrh
callings in a stark waxwork kiln.
Starry wisdom waits a strict pain
dulthood moly along world mind.

Abstract lights and stall immur us,
running in glamour’s indigo.
Marrow of no tomorrow; thing
is, you find but a husky night

facts, fnords. Widowshins-dug rainbow
is mokita in our first glass.
Pounamu paths cross basilisk
crisp whisking cola umgang waltz.

1101-1108 04

Thursday, November 11, 2004

"If you have to take away masses of men from all industrial employment,--to feed them by the labor of others,--to provide them with destructive machineries, varied daily in national rivalship of inventive cost; if you have to ravage the country which you attack,--to destroy for a score of future years, its roads, its woods, its cities, and its harbours;--and if, finally, having brought masses of men, counted by hundreds of thousands, face to face, you tear those masses to pieces with jagged shot, and leave the living creatures, countlessly beyond all help of surgery, to starve and parch, through days of torture, down into clots of clay--what book of accounts shall record the cost of your work;--what book of judgment sentence the guilt of it?" --John Ruskin, The Crown of Wild Olive (1866)

On my victrola: Swingin' Creepers.

Mullah Chin is In.


A Caulaucauch franchising thing
Rorschach all in vain condign pain,
sonorous and it abhors us
and talks of quashing our rainbow

kray in the giln afraid rainbow
afraid dark afraid of grad mind
of odd of far and bury us
in a loud cocoon of dull pain

no buying this franchising thing
again but did and basilisk
with all blown off limbs now you waltz
Caulaucauch Fallujah blood myrrh

walrus light i am a black kiln
burning. I am bad indigo
and i hunt glowing city night
and hurt with city ruin glass.


Who’ll rip pour out a part full glass
rip rank rump that shark our rainbow
domus for rip hardly jump thing
that shark carbolic brainwash waltz

road to utopia lost mind
how in this acrid crimson night
dry hump that shark with glimflash myrrh
and a brush of my basilisk

wisp crystal stars imprison us
black box bump that shark indigo
hidalgo Caulaucauch a kiln
tanks roll and talons hold no pain

rhost turmoil chump dump that shark pain
in a halcyon dawn that glass
has caught gold shards of and flings us
ash blain and rind pump that shark mind

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

His work is finish.
On my victrola- Patti Smith: Dr*am of Lif*.


So hist’ry was too hard for us.
In phobic orthodoxy night
lungfish in solitary pain
pray hilarious basilisk

and limp a waltz, and limp a waltz.
Faith gray as Garland playground glass
joins blood musk and carrion myrrh
turgidly. Find a chirg rainbow

in this. Flooding out of my mind
all cark and will, as from a kiln
its radiation, and what thing
i hold i know not. Indigo

birds sunk only by indigo
shot, total war and both of us
stuck in a world of stupid pain,
in a room with a basilisk.


Wrung a solitary rainbow
out of my agonistic glass;
i shall shut up in a room myrrh
floats, allow softly shadows waltz

around blank walls of a dank kiln
in this ignorant trustful night.
It is a vivid blurry thing
i carry and mold in my mind.

Practicing today not to mind
all acrid trials of indigo
in sunlight waiting, allot myrrh
for this coming witch-watchful night.

Fathoms, if our faith wink nil, kiln
and shill of kiln, hazardous waltz
to a sand of gound srinding glass
hand in hand with wasp basilisk.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Think again. (via Talking Points M*mo) And looky.

"My other bicycle is a pipe bomb."

Ditto (scroll down).

Mauna Loa anomaly. Soon, Dubyastan will not worry us worst, i think. But who knows?

It's only our world's air.
"It is too plain he has betrayed his country.
And we're the wretched tools by him marked out
To seal its ruins -- tear up the ancient forms,
And every vestige treacherously destroy,
Nor leave a trait of freedom in the land."

--M*rcy Otis Warr*n, The Group (1775)
On my victrola- Bjork: S*lmasongs


A long insomniac rainbow
in our dark rooms, in our Kurd myrrh
lit by talking pumpkins, and glass
throwbacks. Cling not to fossil night

nor clang of schism. Unwar mind
must outskirmish that basilisk
in which pain snowy bright with pain
paints its horizon a lost thing.

I’m too old for drafting. Blood thing,
and blind truth stalks a picnic kiln
and griffin will waltz through this pain
and aroha fling its rainbow.

Softly, a sound of giddy myrrh
amidst triumphal Big Christ waltz:
thus occupation throws shard glass
in historic Portsmouth’s blown mind.


Slow walk in a sad basilisk
rain. Victory catsup daubs us
with crimson on our indigo.
Satans minions fill this loud night.

As a burglar swoops during night
so has losing taught ilka thing
a phiz for ruin. Happy myrrh
cloys, it is far from wights in pain

as napalm burning from rainbow.
Satans minions, which is us. Kiln
food; arrows aim of basilisk
all around and a road thin glass

or mid Atlantic a thin mind
sinking. Void of stars indigo,
still many whirl that starry waltz
harmony which is not for us.

Monday, November 08, 2004


Fasad al-zaman drums this waltz.
What’s a hobbit to do? Black glass
holds gazing cassowary mind.
Or: collusion is a rainbow.

Night sound of downpour. Stubborn thing,
a corny dog’s lost waft, and pain
stood. Aloft through curtains of myrrh
cantrips wing in occulting night.

Tomorrow won’t understand us.
Far from our folkish basilisk,
and our uniform indigo,
high sun and smog-swirling war kiln...

Colors solidify through kiln
action; allow only a waltz
and many will trip. Pity us
who found our Wyrd in indigo.

Sunday, November 07, 2004



' "Their cruelty," I replied, "is made of fear; they are ill with fear. They are a sick nation, a Krankesvolk."

"Yes, a sick people," said Munthe, tapping the floor with the tip of his cane, and after a long silence he asked me whether it was true that the Germans were thirsting for blood and destruction.

"They are afraid," I replied, "they are afraid of everything and everybody; they kill and destroy out of fear. Not that they fear death; no German, man or woman, young or old, fears death. They are not even afraid of suffering. In a way one may say that they like pain. But they are afraid of all that is living, of all that is living outside of themselves and of all that is different from them. The disease from which they suffer is mysterious. They are afraid above all of the weak, of the defenseless, of the sick, of women and of children. They are afraid of the aged. Their fear has always aroused a profound pity in me. If Europe were to feel sorry for them, perhaps the Germans would be healed of their horrible disease." '

--Curzio Malapart*, Kaputt (1946), tr C Foligno


We made all possible preparations,
Drew up a list of firms.
Constantly revised our calculations
And allotted the farms.

Issued all the orders expedient
In this kind of case:
Most, as was expected, were obedient,
Though there were murmurs, of course;

Chiefly against our exercising
Our old right to abuse:
Even some sort of attempt at rising
But these were mere boys.

For never serious misgiving
Occurred to anyone,
Since there could be no question of living
If we did not win.

The generally accepted view teaches
That there was no excuse,
Though in the light of recent researches
Many would find the cause

In a not uncommon form of terror;
Others, still more astute,
Point to possibilities of error
At the very start.

As for ourselves there is left remaining
Our honour at least,
And a reasonable chance of retaining
Our faculties to the last.”

--Aud*n, Po*ms (1930)