Saturday, August 13, 2005

(via savvyc*nt*r dot com)


nation validation strict
· I conform in TV rainclouds
sloppy killings adlib bard · stars gibbons royal onslaught as
stars gratification kind sculpt · stoical birdtalk

Raps calx xlacspar. High doors always yawning--for what?


orbit grisly ablution · I stall ignorantly bringing
liftoff ascian slow typical · damask damask about slick furlough stars
with folly unknowing pistol
· is it painful bliss

Mild torturing is good for you.


liripoop finish crumbly · I spoil tomorrow pools uptown
affably misty
an airt · is shockingly scant grisly numb
am abroad flay my fighting ash · spool worshipful rim

Sad with a world that is unknown but as icons. I talk to a wind swaying. Finish showing you and go.

Salsas. (via M*tafilt*r)

"What a pity that Bela Bartok
Cannot give his smug public a shock
    By writing in parts
    For the hiccups and farts
And conducting the piece with XXX XXXX"

--Basil Bunting (via Languag* Hat)


an unfamiliar glory
in this land without walking

dim among shards of mayfly
i grasp what's utmost quasar

my mind grinds its gray spintcom
avatar of gray sandcoil


moon bloom an hour
was my color and story
you turn out softly

how long can this gold sky roar
shadowing all dark snowfall



softly how long
grinds its gray
and what birdtalk

tamarind quitchgrass

Friday, August 12, 2005


solitary word alight · I stir rapacious grom cyborgs
swirl cobra tryst adopting ask · part sloppy fiction aglow shorn
starry wisdom as stinky links · from front fault apart

Bardic art fails to uphold its promising glamour. I don’t know why.


solitary wounds alight
· I stars ransack crisp ryotwar twang
forlorn runaway anarch
· adorn isinglass La Llorona
mimics Ogpu whirlwind stony · riot astray at

An old car with many things going bad. A song that has no logic and that ghosts follow, wailing. "Ogpu" is my past, possibly. It rains gray hoogly in bright sunlight, now. Now.


invisigoth and ivory
· I is silkworm agony coign
stars which walking individual
· odorous tinkling ovoid
forlorn proconsul my fifth
· wish ossuary

Ossuary i almost saw and still must stay in. Caught up. Much still to do. Duration of failing light, duration of rough walking. Dyadic osmium. Pallid bismuth.


solitary worms alight · I attack satisfaction army
by twilight constraints grisly · ambush Islamist WalMarts
although fictional again short · at Findhorn rally

Torturing bad guys is okay now.

Futility. (via M*tafilt*r)

Thursday, August 11, 2005

(via southport dot jpl dot nasa dot gov)

   "The Dry Heart

The world where the dead live is a dry heart,.
Every world is a heart, a rhythm spherical,
A rhythm of impossible intentions
That yet sings itself, imagining heard music.
The world where the dead live is a silent choir.
It does not hear itself, it sings itself not.
Its will has frozen into memory,
Black as still blood, without flow.
To the painless sorrow of death it throbs.
The world where the dead live is a heart alive
In a body once alive.
The dead move neither into heaven nor hell.
Their afterwards is their before.
The world where the dead live is a dry heart,
The same heart as always, even dry."

--Laura Riding


osmium assailing am · I quotidian smart wallop
isthmus asthma
fabulous · Pirc albino ritual ink
again vanilla impacts silk
· squidly ruinous

"Osmium" is hard to lift. "Pirc" in my old days cost much but i could play it now i think. Pallid writing as if a mind without its brain matrix. Moving blindfold.


squidly Uqbar tubular
· I idiomatically blurt
sylph runway
squib absolution · wards frabjous Atlantis dunk
abandon vulgar climax gasp · grasping sinistral

You know "Uqbar". My hand paladinry is wrong but i can allow a switch if i want.

Smoky photos. (thanx Jill!)

     Michael, Michelle and I went to see "Broken Flowers" yesterday at the Magnolia. "Flowers" is the new Jim Jarmusch film that received great acclaim at the most recent Cannes Film Festival (winning the Grand Prize award, second only to the Golden Palm). Jarmusch, of course, first attracted worldwide attention when his micro-budgeted "Stranger Than Paradise" won the Golden Camera award (for new film makers) at the
1984 Cannes fest. Hardly anything he's done in the two decades since has made much of a ripple in the mainstream culture (even "Dead Man" with Johnny Depp), but his latest bittersweet offering, could change all that. "Broken Flowers" is not exactly a great movie.  The three of us agreed there were some nagging--easily remedied--glitches, but the good, because it is so good, probably outweighs the bad.  The plot is simplicity itself, and fear not, there are no spoilers to be found in this missive;  better that the story's details unfold right in front of you in a darkened theatre.  Bill Murray stars as an eternal bachelor, improbably named Don Johnston (as in Don Juan) who, just as his current relationship is ending, receives an unsigned letter informing him he has a 19 year old son who may try to look him up all these many years later.  It's likely the letter has been written by the young man's mother; there is no return address and the postmark on the letter is too faint to decipher. (Btw, I hereby apologize for using quote marks instead of italics for these movie titles.)
    Johnston, egged on by a neighbor (the always game Jeffrey Wright) who's a big fan of mysteries, sets out on
a road trip to track down the woman who wrote the letter and, presumably, gave birth to their son.  The most likely candidates are played by, in alphabetical order, Frances Conroy (a distinguished actress perhaps better known by name than face, although she has garnered a following thanks to her role as the family matriarch in the cable series "Six Feet Under"),  Jessica Lange,  Sharon Stone, and Tilda Swinton (virtually unrecognizable as the opaque--talented--beauty from "Orlando" and "The Deep End").  Jarmusch, like Don Johnston, clearly has an eye for the ladies.  Stone has the least interesting role of the quartet, though she has the glow of good health, not to mention good genes, and her vignette is actually funny (but not because of her, necessarily). Jarmusch heightens the tension to an almost unbearable level during the encounter between Murray and Conroy, but for me, the movie is at its most emotionally involving in the scenes featuring first Lange, then Swinton. Of all the women, Lange is actually closer to Murray's age (followed by Conroy), and when the two of them reunite, they're quite
convincing as a couple with a past.  Of course, writer-director Jarmusch is a minimalist, so he hasn't exactly written roles of enormous complexity (and almost all the reunion scenes seem to end prematurely), but, in Lange, Jarmusch has cast an actress of such  skill she can bring a great deal of murky emotional undercurrent to the simplest exchange: soft and silky one minute, cold and cutting the next.  Lange plays her character as a wounded woman  who has found contentment by reinventing herself and, as much as she can, burying her past.  
    Jessica Lange turned 56 in April; this movie was most likely filmed when she was 55.  She's no longer the adorable cuddle-bunny she was in 1982's Tootsie (for which she won her first Oscar), and it shows.  Her face is definitely lined with age--and that's not really a bad thing. It's quite encouraging, actually. Lange has lived a full life, and she wears it well.  Still, even with the obvious signs of age, this woman still has one of the cinema's greatest ever faces.  At one point, during an outdoor scene, she's photographed in three-quarter profile and the camera just loves her  amazing bone structure, the incredible arrangement of planes and angles that plays tricks with light and shadow.  Lange  possesses the kind of extraordinary beauty for which movie stardom was invented (even if she has stubbornly resisted that notion).
    Still,  Bill Murray is the lead here and he gives a performance that feels more genuine than his Oscar nominated turn as a slumming American movie star in 2003's  "Lost in Translation."  That movie got a lot of mileage out of Murray's familiar mannerisms (the cool mocking tone of an overgrown frat boy), but Murray was never completely believable as the kind of action movie hero outlined in the script (the character was reportedly based on Harrison Ford).  In "Broken Flowers," Murray's character is better developed--he acquires depth during the course of his journey--and his  deadpan delivery is a perfect match for Jarmusch's already noted minimalist style. Jarmuch also deserves credit for staging a beautiful, potentially overdone emotional scene-- and then cutting away before it  sinks to "Oscar clip"  mawkishness.  No one need thank the Academy just yet; however, if the movie crosses over into  the mainstream, it would be a good thing for Jarmusch (who was "indie" when
the word practically screamed "underground").  In spite of the movie's few annoying imperfections, I can visualize a Best Original Screenplay nomination for Jarmusch (even if, ultimately, the idea is stronger than the execution--though that's really a matter of taste), and maybe a second bid for Murray.  Oscar talk for Sharon Stone--someone's got a press agent on speed dial--seems premature, but a nomination for Lange (supporting, only, please) would be swell. Swinton's role, as good as she is in it, is probably too limited in scope to warrant serious award consideration (though it's such a startling change of pace, she might just have a shot). At any rate, Jarmusch has paid his dues.  Now, go see for yourself.

Thanks for your consideration,

"Mysticism doesn't come naturally to an ironist..."
                                           --Pauline Kael

Wednesday, August 10, 2005


O, little crown of iron forged to likeness of imam's face,
what are you doing in this circle of flaming inspectors and bakers?

And little burnt dinner all set to be eaten
(and crispy girl all dressed with scarf for school),
what are you doing near this shovel for dung-digging,
hissing like ice-cubes in ruins of little museum?

And little shell of bank on which flakes of assets fall,
can't I still withdraw my bonds for baby?

Good night moon.
Good night socks and good night cuckoo clocks.

Good night little bedpans and a trough where once there and inn
(urn of dashed pride)
what are you doing beside little wheelbarrow
beside some fried chickens?

And you, ridiculous wheels spinning on mailman's truck,
truck with ashes of letter from cripy girl all dressed with scarf
for school.
why do you seem like American experimental poets going nowhere
on little exercise bikes?

Good night barbells and ballet dancer's shoes
under plastered ceilings of Saddam Music Hall.
Good night bladder of Helen Vendler and a jar from Tennessee.
(though what are these doing here in Baghdad?)

Good night blackened ibis and some keys.
Good night, good night.

(And little mosque popped open like a can, which same as factory
of flypaper has blown outward, covering the shape of man with it
(with mosque): He stumbles up Martyr's Promenade. What does it
matter who is speaking, he murmurs and mutters, head a little bit
on fire. Good night to you too).

Good night moon.
Good night poor people who shall inherit the moon.

Good night first edition of Das Kapital, Novum Organum,
The Symbolic Affinities between Poetry Blogs and Oil Wells,
and the Koran.

Good night nobody.

Good night Mr. Kent, good night, for now you must
soon wake up and rub your eyes and know that you are dead."

--K*nt Johnson (via T*xfil*s)

"...political ire is hardly the most promising surface motive for sustaining the language and procedures of contemporary poetry..."

"This wasn't trisomy 21..." (via Languag*hat)

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

    "Death of a Oaxaqueñian

So huge is God’s despair
In the wild cactus plain
I heard Him weeping there

That I might venture where
The peon had been slain
So huge is God’s despair

On the polluted air
Twixt noonday and the rain
I heard Him weeping there

And felt His anguish tear
For refuge in my brain
So huge is God’s despair

That it could find a lair
In one so small and vain
I heard Him weeping there

Oh vaster than our share
Than deserts of new Spain
So huge is God’s despair
I heard Him weeping there...."

--Malcolm Lowry


inciting anvil accruals
· I attain virtual ink
against caracul and ivory · lingo flow lanai scrollwork
scarab trusty vulva jazz slam · tsunami Sith cairn

"Caracul" is cup fur. "Lanai" from Gold Girls TV show (outdoors porch). Sith want to banish all fantasy and wishful thinking.

Fractal music.

Lov*craftian Dumbl*dor*. (via Silliman)

Monday, August 08, 2005


luminous autopsy umgang · I Angular Lord tundra
assailing jazz furl static · pools sponsor psychic pyjamas
ruby imam aground maintain · instant igloo ring

"Angular Lord" is Maya Olofi. It was told of. Cloud astrology.


splicing apricot clockwork
· I schoolroom killings angrily
ignoring gallons sprightly
· groan kindling sculpt forlorn styrofoam
scratchy flatworm workbook occult · skyborn swarm pool

My contact with what occurs in Ft Worth is practically nil.


copious polyps spiral · I Cobalt Gulag astonish
sparklingly goatfish clockwork · iynx apportion psalmody ash
sporangium simoom grisly · La Llorona pink

Working so hard fo not much. Sunlight as if foggy curtain, can’t look far, and sight burns. "La Llorona" haunts us in days of voting loss. Goatfish Ogpu. What stays in la computadora? I worry about.


fluids always ruinous
· I add ostrich salsa along
ywis Xanadu zymurgy
· as writing bulbous liftoff
in Oolb fulvous tsantsa withdrawal · gall adjourn Id

"Xanadu" on Titan, natch. "Oolb" is from Shaving of Shagpat, a city.


rabid Baathists ablution · I adorably abjuring
caladium wash story · ghost withdrawal as it is calm
obolary gloom rural storm · pillaging forlorn

Caladiums in my childhood adorn its backyard and show a kind of plant that wants twilight.

For a Lynch Anthology. (via Dumbfoundry)

    "I Walk Alone

I walk on empty, alone every morn
Of my wealth there are but,
A curd of milk and few kernels of corn
Alone in silence my heart sinks
Of my orchid there are but,
Wild cactus and a shrub of brittle sticks
Alone at the wayside I wonder and wait
With heart stirred that refuses to be reined
Will the world listen?
Does the world care?

From behind the shadow, a tyrant sighed
Wither away in solitude, he cried
Over at the ivory tower the high strolled
Hamming the virtue of freedom he rolled
Shunned from the community of men
To no! I became a weary friend

Yet in solemn I struggle and strive
For a bright tomorrow and beautiful dawn
I sing my heart and trot with joy
Cause this dreadful night shall come to pass
The dark curtain, surely will rise
Splendidly bold and not a bit coy
Maandeeq draped in a flowing gown
Will stand equal among her peers
To bring countenance and much deserve cheers

Maandeeq the just - Maandeeq the true
Walk steady and walk strong
Maandeeq our grace - Maandeeq our calling
Soar free into the open sky
Maandeeq our sword - Maandeeq our pen
Bring meaning and honor to our fallen men
Maandeeq the way - Maandeeq the promise
Stay deaf to the doubter’s cry

Break the soil at the dry riverbed
Till in earnest from dawn to dusk
For time to plant tears are long gone
Undo the ill of our broken bond
Undo the burden of broth and bread
Break the chain and never look back
Give back yourself - Your old self again
Embrace the gift - The gift of life
The smile - The laughter, the sweet sob again
Sing with joy - Sing with pride
For Maandeeq is here - Our precious dear"

--Said Omar Moussa

Sunday, August 07, 2005


Amen. The casket like a spaceship bears her
In streamlined, airtight comfort underground.
Necropolis is a nice place to visit;
One would not want to live there all year round.

So think the children of its dead, emerging
From shadow by the small deep gates of clay,
Exclaiming softly, joyful if bewildered,
To see each other rouged, heads bald or gray.

Some have not met, though constant to the City,
For decades. Now their slowly sunnier
Counterclockwise movement, linked and loving,
Slackens the whirlpool that has swallowed her.

Alone, she grips, against confusion, pictures
Of us the living, and of the tall youth
She wed but has not seen for thirty summers.
Used to the dark, he lies in the next booth,

Part of that whole, poor, overpopulated
Land of our dreams, that ‘instant’ space
--To have again, just add stars, wind, and water--
Shrinkingly broached. and, as the brief snail-trace

Of he withdrawal dries upon our faces
The silence drums into her upturned face."



stairway Atari rainclouds
· I tryst swarming narrowcasting
my band attracts wasp crystal
· williwaw broiling latifundia
giant antonym scrimshaw · sluggish forlorn

Aurora Troll. Black pints, communication with Ghayb.


ridiculous simoom · adamant I scrollwork tubular
Kodak dusk asthma · Isfahan wizard smock toasty
morass among
caracul ado · vanish amply

It always rains. World full of ghosts, including ghost of skygoing. aturnward, unsaturnward airt. frabbits = frog-rabbits. Garudas drink frabbit-ichor for food.


digital silkworm ogham
· I stoop walking Klaatu asking
visitors sly akimbo
· swap confusions crystal
ambulatory pools
ago · sharp warts imago

Garudas hark for sonar input. Cloud-plankton. Xibalba is ground, floating tripton murk shrouds. Dull crimson and acrawl with sonic matrix calls.

Usual amount of good working.

" be poets, we have to learn how to do a (metaphorical) dead-sea float."