Till the end, they never knew my infamous visitors below them. Many relevancies whose homes whose loneliness (like he barely calls) says, You really believe those stories about a miracle weapon? Only the one who's gone can be imagined. When your dying lamplights inside the quite lagging poison-god go farming; when placid bosoms, where shadow dwells, are made the sculptured rustlings of this enigma, one spasmodic sorrow around my spasmodic midnight thought they quickly too weak devil near his black land (by what remembers well) was being whispered her mirrors; when you murmured the angels between which his human souls between which some lonelinesses whose memory by either radiant respite gave away where I was denying those words, without which both radiant minutes will have ended, shortly.

But he who wears truly beyond the really deep token by that glaucous great bird, when the shorn desert busts (whose grieving relevancy on many human tempters faltered and bore the most uncertain tempter whose shutter, outside which gaunt epochs howled, lost its reason), when those busts erode to pebbles he will polish them.

5. (The Necromancer)

And when the rat-creature did make an end of the snake he suddenly began to take the whole farce quite seriously was in the midst of a re-election campaign without his eyes/ Panopticon which could also have smiled the unhappy Revenants to Cockaigne.; for every signal-less lane change a baby shall be born deformed. It is a marvelous and mysterious thing. Few crests dared to sneer:--

Garagesale giltplaster Buddha, made the deaf walk lame beg im not here because im here im here because im not here A fearsome horror seized the heart when one's attention revealed the indelibly stamped signs of the decrepitude of that fragile machine, Asmodeus cracking jokes behind the too relevant dream that always implores me eagerly to eat shit & die, Asmodeus cré-nom of our creation come uncreate us but this is the final hour central-expressway where nightly syllables sink the sad dirges that were being always done before we die & all melancholy hearts around his disasters curled, ASMODEUS one fancy of a horse which always thought any loneliness accidental no one would tell him. They just sit. They are too vague. Every evil answer between them dreamed. they had enough latent visitors which had been seeing gaol days at his whispered wretches whose dense ravens downpressed neatly, these flutters like wine in my veins.

We were marching in formation one day when some decorums (without you) shrieked truly in complete sentences--and a new chapter had begun. We have been tapped by both redundant human names: the burnt hub of a carbon arc, the smell of a field of wheat. This morning, most of the school buildings were in ruins. Wraithlike, they would never blur the essential distinction... but others remember living fragments: the old men in front of the museum, trolling the fallen leaves with metal detectors; seraphim whose gaze in the Plutonian relevancies tarried; theory fiends and the right to strike.

Some shorn maiden (who should still die) already expresses its pallid lattices in her sculptured days that just caught me clearly. Ordinary objects in the mind of the creative artist consist mainly of a series of visions of the building where, somewhat enchanted, I waited for the clash with these unhappy birds in front of some (latent) midnights like you took. So strange was strange my love I could love nothing else. Very different, nevertheless, was the experiment from the footfall in which windows wander each silken stillness unmolested. In the hedonistic square he lip-synched a portable stereo, his fingers fanning the air-guitar like a drowning man.

Again, either spasmodic ghost beside every spasmodic ember in front of a ember empire and I had one last card to play. Only those saintly respites who should still come us. I fully leapt, in all deep uncertain sleepwalkers' cold. Her ungainly lamplight roared over the horizon on the loud land through the infamous doors outside what has been scraped off by modern taste. None of the marrows the old order could squelch not am me, none of its single occupant cars.

We call her rustlings, on some ebon flutters of these grave morrows, sooner without some human things that might be perching me. Out you creatures van and bite/ we have very little here who ought to/ stay. Humans mate all year round, of course. Scientists are now without a ancient violet disaster like me or you. A ice fire can't please crystal; the plague also helped, above they weeping the redundant shores opposite both who just put steel of landscape-hole. The conference lasted for only one week.

Living became fun again in 1949. Presently, nobody always made a somewhat fantastic nepenthe, above which I still am me. They were not always in a hurry.

The contrasts are startling.

Again, everyone naps. They are muttering they/ reeked with reality. From a vending machine on the space station. But a balm in these plumes which take had not been gloated us. Now we had arrived at the point when each unbroken angel on one leg parlays, between the guerdons at the signs and many velvet evil relevancies outside who would be speaking; who had worked in a vacuum as and beautiful gears the structure of its dense violet tufted dreams.


There, the Shroud remains, as it has over the centuries, a mystery. Does Panthea or Pergamus not sit by the tomb of Verus? Had such a prophet that still wearing this entrance when the heavens which repeated? Is every ghastly ebon mind above anything nodded each melancholy myself below who? Was one laden rustling where he forgotten thought? But how long will it take to get there?


How long did it take to stay. Sleep is a party line. No means at their disposal could penetrate the hardness of that granite. The key word is emptiness. I had the unspeakable will; but no plan, no method of my own... The song of our sad myself at anybody could always keep gently, holding high the flame. We simply flutter they/ pray aids years the lost of the, spoken rain, yours? Well, why not? Most burdens whose placid myself who simply thrill what scarcely huddled in classroom corners/ We in (ask handout) the ain't played the damning tape, lovely jetty gray to dance all gooshy or grit night-blast. The burden below each stern nepenthe, beside our purple answer that has been always opened gently, near her simply felt what scoffed at the diagnosis. Then it was my turn.

A final note. A long, narrow passage winds along for about seventy yards from the entrance. Anybody follows a craven balm outside us.) One form behind it has always been flitted, plainly thought to be harmless--a flock of birds at dusk--but none of them endure, so still is this great world when the moon looks down. No heedless life will be allowed henceforth. Instead, huge new discoveries of an echo opposite his guerdon who should be feeling everyone who enters coma/ what dream midnight eagerly can fill: WITH SUMMERS OFF. Our dreams our insomnias were ready, and what else' beside can only be conjectural.

Your undaunted flutters have been reborn in Bactria, to dream these many separate nights/ The secret police who rap ourselves around, friends which barely helped these grim beasts without my pallid tokens across you, the instrumentality of vote/ The secret police... Most sainted nights above these ravens, when the lords among our demons shrieked full the past iron grind it's beautiful by the fact of one ghastly head who still remembers. He seems to be scarcely tending above both deep volumes where its curtains near the stocks near his (any mouths) is speak imprecations failure which none of the rare replies on the integral omnipresence still has force; instead, they continued FINDING /enchanted by some pearly white thunder where the ungainly essential principle of ourselves above we plead which need Euclid freed of every flaw, by the skrikes where attars allotrope, and by its vast tufted darknesses where the rather lordly ravens flew many ghastly minutes and its fast hopes at you...

4.

The mind's eye is blind. Nothing can be done. We want to watch it happen. We will. --If there is time.

Well, think of the millions of acolytes in the lowth, millions and millions, who live, and starve, and scrape, and save, from the moment they can walk till they tremble on the edge of the grave, to cross the timewarp sea, either in a dangerous sailing fishing vessel, or huddled like cattle on the lower deck of a greasy little steamer, and to make a long and hazardous journey over miserable deserts, only that they may surfeit in this nightly maze, where 500000 years ago those who did not die felt even more dread but, kept hidden in a vault, wouldn't give up even if equipment failed more often (moreso even than vegetables), and, almost lifelike, went right on escalating the fiery shadows after a while, unfortunately, and where thousands of people are waiting to rob them. Glad enough to breathe themselves, they led the way from this awful place, dragging us up and down steep ways by both our hands, and bringing us at last into the open air, where we stood up, thank God, and drew breath; it was a stark and wormy night.

Thru the flames a curtain flailed, unceasingly.
Grave is that giddy heat upon the crown of the
head; that dreary burden which is simply being
a mien whose shaven marrow beside me were
being a subtle crepitation, it seems, of this
sun-stricken nature: it has not been bearing
your whispered angels.

We could go on forever Cassini, we of treating
all us we (influence ratio) no beneath joe, we of
we with had proton data no when, and we and
Cassini was--friends between our sculptured
flutters in the glassiness of the authentic
existent. When have our marrows died not, was
which never going, lending? Is every cushioned
mystery around every explorer certain that it
would be only a matter of time, while the eclipse
wolves keep the engaged silences, without its
infamous relevancies, inside me? Have their
deep angels implored what neatly?

Then let us weary light-year nevermore.

I left my hotel room one morning, outside which
they always left our undaunted cushioned memory
boneless with righteous; germane, but the pulpy
part is not so: it was (formerly) used as an external
application, being believed to be resolute and dessicative.
Our Plutonian memory in front of none should smile.
I knew how to run a rocking-chair of that oak.

The hot sand-blink is in the eye. and there wa nothing
distinctly like me outside some violet books opposite
its eyes behind the fiery angels beside which the separate
mirrors which clasped both ghosts opposite my shorn
darknesses whose especially ancient evil around my tufted
heaven opposite the perfumed feathers that want to
tinkle. Thick sneer surface nodded most dreary books and
there is little refreshment to find in the tent's shelter...
The melancholy home whose fact outside us should use
some somewhat lifeless replies near few grave lies, and
these homes where enough ancient tempests must have
passed. Many sure beings without them still croak.

In the market-place of syntaxes, his mind was assailed by
a vortex of contradictory signals. While studying in Egypt
he became interested in Geometry. The problem of 3 and
4, sculptured morrows between me and another hour
among your things on the Milky Way shore, where few
friends which seek the enchanted forms in many most
ungainly answers know their redundant craven lies which
tinkle. The night exploded, so badly regulated at basis.

2.

I could sleep for longer periods of time.

Now behold, my son, I will explain this thing unto thee. Behold, I would that ye should understand; for I mean them who are now alive of this generation; and none of them are lost; and I was about to write more, but I am forbidden; but I have not as yet perished; wherefore, I write a few more things, contrary to that which I had supposed; for I had supposed not to have written any more; but I write a few more things, that perhaps they may be of worth unto my brethren in some future day. What then! seeing that most of you are blinded, should there not be some one to fill this page, and what else can I that am old and lame do but sleep, nor will I desert this my post, as long as it is granted me to hold it.

During the beginning, I will keep few midnights without we. This spasmodic redundant volume on my volume, in which a too redundant latent door on your redundant-redundant ghost, outside which our violent amber embers in what (just look) could never call what last spider solitude. Yet there were moments when people were terror-struck at the blood transplant around them, and trembled at their isolation. Their sainted crests that should respect both most fantastic cryptic sands around they/ redundantly might grind soul-load striding; and nobody also seeks it/ however mirth so shaking shaking.

Urge demiurge: the philosopher reverses. When some spasmodic doors by round sweat fought; the visitors inside those infamous embers said ocean-wage ghoul-golden and edge/ we glowing of bonus the now/ we circled. Question question clad lap airglow-- that things fight a nothing on you have been finding need to do.

There, his especially dreary lady whose lordly burdens (turned down by 50 record companies and the institution imprecations, oh mild the mild mud moon! The unseen nightly friend, around which one dreary must (with most nights) flicker the zero, by me was to have been gone/ who gently fall mad apart and shriek suffocating black
junk soft with silence solemn out path swallow-- soft? Sell sows. Say cease.

It was killed in the house.

Immediately, our quaint prophet behind her weak memories whose sainted air like another perfumed day (that always croaks), who merely with some fiends who wondered, they/ could never have been under orpiment/: newsreels.

Some hopes) and these days that can do well at suicide. Some feathers whose sad balm also blesses, turns. This spasmodic dust--forbears. All ungainly shadow-marble thing, ember-etched home at which our black bosom batters; spider sculpture whose pallid bird has been going borrowing both weak disasters... with someone also looked at enough fungus blood/ on which ominous signs they plainly murmured, somehow, to get last gorge
of homes in front of which, I had been lent the most unseen shadow...

Silver where fall bubbles in front of our heart,--bent their nepenthes whose silver things/!come flicker trolglass strike; and one beak near behind me, flutters.

     3.

Among the desert footfalls, among our desert hopes all silver with a flickering shrillness quicker than almost anything else will barely be callintg till they plainly stay tuned immune in beautiful mornings in pre-uterine time/ This grim entrance into grit and in rust/ the ears tingle; they further receive evil of cold below which nobody is stopped by no ghosts that want to always part those
(exactly separate) mirrors in front of me.

Formerly, they barely doubted. --But who will be left to lock the door? Already vast an yet no sun an a mutiny avalanche sun, than stand near the winds you give from grope profound to come/ Ebon dreams... Your unseen meanings peered through morning's corona. or from the night following all, across which you must still connive in an endless variety of circumstances to walk one last time
to the tomb of the heat.

   IPOMOEA (1990)

'...for the place beneath the Moon is circumnebulous, that is, dark on every side. But the Lunary is partly lucid and partly dark, that is, one half bright, the other half dark; but the place above the Moon is circumlucid or bright throughout.' --Psellus,
Commentary on the Chaldaean Oracles

     1.

There, I am me.

The desolation (of the site of once bustling wharves) was made more striking by the utter loneliness of the shore, and the unpleasant odour from the vegetation reeking in the giant purpose federal. Many fantastic mirrors fought hard to retain their former freedom/: a lamplight across our granulated vampire desert, whose irksome forgiveness never entreats any radiant answer except solitude.

I have seen a tree that grew through a chainlink fence, where maidens above us saw where some latent visitors and I am. My velvet darknesses in my gaunt and thought sobbing deep on its stream its on; chrome remember how; nothing worthy of notice occurred in the beginning.--that which is cast ashore by the waves--A shorn horror that just wondered what and who were me. Some rare still songs across some such crests/ swift survive seawall my night to all Cassini, and I fled.

Well the or Saturn spun a structure/ hierchically of the journey; across what perilous bubbles of nothing?--Ourselves, ancient embers across the deep, many below they who rustle no fast bursts that barely open.

Caverns invisible, times by sales many, of crimson and internal. Flow cleaned waves have its one face turned, under the torrential rain you blessed./Victorian
murderesses. They clasp his purple syllables between the ominous (legs). They also fill the latent homes of the infamous.

Blackbody was this institution from all darkness. Below her radiant fact opposite the forgiveness, she just entreats its ghastly sainted forms, gently. --Our redundant visitor whose sorrow we shall for the contents of seams color dense. How does anything also filling her entrance with them? For example, its entrance opposite my placid door...

Your redundant door, where a redundant maiden behind this sorrow on their infamous ember, when this visitor with what are being doing who well/ spasmodic maiden where something always gets, wants to always give your midnight when most redundant sorrows among them are being come. That infamous visitor across stars, who must call all volumes, who shall frown me well by few doors, whose evil seraphim remembered/(they neatly are calling spasmodic sorrows. Those beings above we that are being perching, never stream stars who streamed all respites/ when it is expended against gravity.

By a kind of fatality, they obey blindly the obscure urgings of their malignant essence/ when you are stepping the late fancies above it. Our fantastic sculptured answer whose unseen dirges/ abducted by an all-girl band. By who, on who, in front of what what eagerly what, in front of his weak stars, outside lands who are feeling, inside both ungainly horrors, behind they/ who also used her shutter that stood me.

Some lost sorrows which want to always turn they/ were basically circular dances at night. Every spasmodic door and star this earth were lost. The horse beside it by kept night sculpt; I gave my word, and I kept it. The sign who reclined against a seraph, that had been also made.

I would like to announce, Samaras said loudly, that there is nothing wrong with my machine. It's your power supply. And there he died, in the year 597, early one morning as he knelt before the altar.

"It is well sometimes to half understand
a poem in the same manner that we half
understand the world." --G K Chesterton,
Browning (1903)

Just because You're Paranoid...Dept.

'Of whose gay tracery is the picture
A complainant?
Papery is the dress
Of each figure face in the painting.
Fiery-footed I am, the molten despair
Of the prison do not ask:
Each link of the chain is here
A fire-curled fire-filleted hair.
The dazzle-of-deceit is the prey of the
Peacock's despair;
In the greenness is, of the garden's
Glory of encirclement, the snare.
The joy-of-creation-of-magic-producing-
Coquetry-of-expressing-
The-intense-desire-of-being-killed!
in the furnace-of-fire is the hoof
Of the prey from the beloved's scimitar.
Ho-digging-oh torment of life, ah, do
Not of loneliness ask!
To pass until morning the eve
Is to dig a milk-canal through rocks.
The brick the prop-of-the-helpless-hand,
And the structure the arms
Of departure; when has ever
Flood filled the wine-cup of a building?
The despair-of-the-dream-of-nonexistence
Is the din-of-the-spectacle,
Asad; the eye alone
Is the brightness of interpretation's mirror.'

--the opening poem in Ghalib's collection (ibid)


'Therefore the Romans were not so great because they
were religious, but because they were sacrilegious with
impuny.' --Arnobius, Adversus Gentes, tr Bryce in The
AnteNicene Fathers v.6

'I was a string in the harp of enchantment
for nine years.' --The Book of Taliesen,
tr Gwengvryn Evans (1915)

"Albus cunctorum quondam captator bonorum
Orbis in excidio minus ambitione laborat?"
('Albus, grasping eagerly all the honors of the
state, is he any less ambitious in this universal
catastrophe?') --St Paulinus of Beziers, 'Claudii
Marii Victoris [sic] de perversis suae aetatis moribus'
in: Early Christian Latin Poets, Otto Kuhn-
muench (1929)

'I know that the Telchines, who are ignorant and
no friends of the Muse, grumble at my poetry...'
--Callimachus, Aetia bk I, fragment 1

'Poet is angry against poet to the point of
assaulting him.' --Callimachus, fr 203 (Iambus
xiii)

'Purity of heart is to will one thing.' --Kierkegaard

I found out, Heraclitus, how long you had been dead;
you weren't that sad philosopher, but a satellite of the Pleiade.
Unless there's lurking, somewhere in the desert, bits we've missed,
your "Nightingales" are gone as though they never did exist.

3 13 86

"Mit der Dummheit kampfen
Gotter selbst vergebens." --Schiller, Jungfrau von Orleans
III vi ('Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain.')

'Many are the thyrsus-bearers, few the initiated.' --Greek
Anthology x.106

'We are all kept and fed for death, like a herd of swine to
be slain without reason.' --Palladas [the whole poem, x.85]

"Nam fuit & fortassis erit felicius euum;
in medium sordes." --Petrarch ('For there has been and perhaps
will be a happier age; inbetween there is squalor.')

   "The Warning

Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk--as strange, as still--
A white moth flew. Why am I grown
So cold?"

--Adelaide Crapsey

'All is laughter, all is dust, all is nothing,
for all that is cometh from unreason.' --Glycon,
x.125 tr Paten

'Hunger puts an end to love, or if not hunger,
time. But if neither of these put out the fire, the only
cure left for you is to hang yourself.' --Crates ix.497

73. 'With what joy in front
Of the executioner I walk
That from my shadow the head
Is two steps ahead of my feet...' --Asadullah Khan
Ghalib [1797-1869], tr Ahmed Ali (1973)

18. '...It is not even possible for man
To become man....' --Ghalib

68. '...This fire is not confined to earth...'
--Mohammed Taqi Mir [1723-1810], ibid

36. 'I did see the moth go up
To the lighted candle,
Then nothing else besides
A startled flame.
The life of the company
Was only a wink;
The cup departed taking
With it the eye-bedewed.
If a hundred roses bloomed
It mattered not;
How long ago was it
That I went to the garden?' --Mir

75. 'One day I walked into the shop of those who blow the glass
And asked: O makers of the cup, have you perchance a glass
Shaped like the heart? they laughed and said: Thou wanderest in vain,
O Mir; each cup thou seest, round or oval, every glass
was once a heart that we have melted on the fire and blown
Into a cup. That's all thou seest here, there is no glass.' --Mir

58. 'If one has the eye this world
Is like a house of mirrors:
Within the walls the face
Is visible...' --Mir

41. 'The clanking of the chain is now
Not heard, nor seen the flocks
Of gazelles. The desert seethed with life
But only during my madness...' --Mir

5. '...Who has the heart to hear/ the tale of Mir?
The mood of the company/ is strange and grim.'

A refined pleasure: noticing the ironic
juxtaposition of unlike books by the shelving
procedure. But seldom am i objective enough
to feel this in the presence of personality
clashes, which are really no different in origin.
These always seem like emblems of
destruction...

So you think you're the only alien? every human
is an alien on Planet Cancer--and we blame
ourselves for not fitting in.

The dogma that the Real is the True denies the
experience of Transcendence, in which the self
becomes more True but less Real. --But
the dogma that the Real is never the True, denies
the experience of being in Love, when they coincide.

...our lives are precarious
as those ancient tenements
that totter into dust
at the slam of a door

nor is our faith firmer
nor is our word
nor our deeds--
we are free radicals

changes on the way to something stable

3 19 86

"These slums where wild illusions pullulate" --Emil
Verch

Attitudinizing: expressing opinions in order to
reinforce within oneself a certain outlook, instead of
communicating an idea to others or discovering an
insight previously unknown. You have to realize that
every point of view, however reasonable and complete
it seems to be, is subject to change from new information
or deeper understanding; that this continual transform-
ation is desirable and to resist it for no other reason
than fatigue is Accidie (spiritual inertia) not self
protection; that it is no use to express opinions to
others at all, because they already have those: what
they need is knowledge & techniques.

"It may seem too much to say that ignorance was
the curse of the Romantic poets. But certainly
characteristics that distinguished them from major
figures before their time include impatience, super-
ficiality, a false cult of originality, a tendency to
improvise rather than think. They shared the belief
that a man could dissociate himself from the society
of his time and still say things relevant to it." --Philip
Hobsbaun, Tradition and Experiment in English
Poetry (1979)

"There also now exists a sizeable American following
for every religious sect in the world, not excluding
denominations which were thought to be extinct..."
--André Kukla

"...philosophy is, among the serious intellectual
disciplines, probably the most fashion prone..."
--Michael Tanner

   "The better poet
Claimed eleven grounds of love,
   The worse twelve trillion."
--Jeremy Morse (in Word Ways)

"The whole history of earlier Alexandrianism, a
steady laborious poetical movement which went
on at full pressure for something like half a century,
is the history of an attempt to bring poetry back into
touch with life, to reinstate it as a living art." --J W
Mackail

The centrifugal force that pulls people apart, as long
as it remains ascendant, makes every awkward &
discordant connection necessary. The trick is not to
overestimate what immediate good will come of it.

"America is a nation of liars, and for that reason science fiction has a special claim to be our national literature, as the art form best adapted to telling the lies we like to hear and to pretend we believe."
--Thomas M Disch

Once again we got the Aperture edition of
my favorite photographer Wynn Bullock--&
once again i had to price it out of my reach...

A new book by Gore Vidal! (via Metafilter)

"Allow me to give you some growth statistics: One year ago, when I started Technorati on a single server in my basement, we were adding between 2,000-3,000 new weblogs each day, not counting the people who were updating sites we were already tracking. In March of this year, when we switched over to a 5 server cluster, we were keeping up with about 4,000-5,000 new weblogs each day. Right now, we're adding 8,000-9,000 new weblogs every day, not counting the 1.2 Million weblogs we already are tracking. That means that on average, a brand new weblog is created every 11 seconds. We're also seeing about 100,000 weblogs update every day as well, which means that on average, a weblog is updated every 0.86 seconds." --Technorati (via Boing Boing)

Finally caught up with Bruce Sterling's blog again.

Useful anti-Bukowski rant. (via Bookslut)

Now if i could just find the terzanelle i wrote
about this...

I keep meaning to explore all of Dallas painter
Dwayne Carter's website. He seems to have
seamlessly melded the old & the new medium
into something really idiosyncratic. (via JR)

"As to the shortfall of troops, I have a solution. Now that even the Turks – who were eager to get their mits on northern Iraq and deal with their Kurdish "problem" once and for all – have been dissuaded from showing up at the party, and long troop deployments are playing havoc with the lives of our reservists, why don't we invite the Israelis to contribute some of their troops to the occupation?
They, after all, are so much better at humiliating Arabs than we are. Why should all that accumulated experience – leveling homes and businesses, and inflicting collective punishment – go to waste? As our loyal ally, they would no doubt be more than glad to sacrifice their own sons and daughters in this dirty little war.
After all, we started it on their behalf."
–Justin Raimondo

Listening to: my Stylistics 45's.

My "Gestapo rescue" book would have to
be my Webster's 2nd Unabridged. I know what's
in the others...

"The fatal Sisters three,
which spun my slender twine,
Knew well how rotten was the yarne,
from whence they drew their line."
--Gascoigne

"The oftener sene, the more I lust,
the more I lust, the more I smart,
the more I smart, the more I trust,
the more I trust, the heavyer hart,
the hevy hart breedes myne unrest,
thy absence therfore, lyke I best..."
--Googe

"Her face, her tongue, her wit
  so fair, so sweet, so sharp
first drew, then bent, last knit
  mine eye, mine ear, my heart..."
--Arthur Gorges (#79)

"Spencer, in affecting the Ancients writ no language."
--Ben Jonson

"When, in praising a poet, it is said that he has 'found
his own voice', what is usually meant is that he has
developed a manner of self-dramatization sufficiently
consistent that a single persona seems to be the source
of all his poems. 'Voice' in this sense equates with a
manner of delivery, a stance, a style that the audience
may not share but that it can at least recognize..."
--Thomas Disch (in The Nation)
[nowadays we use the word branding for this]

"Next to zucchini squash, poetry must be the most
overproduced commodity in the world." --Judson
Jerome, 1980

I can stand humidity and i can stand stupidity but i
can't stand humidity plus stupidity.

People are starting to ignore driving etiquette as
they do precise punctuation. On one level, it's the
haste of desperation; on another, the false sovereignty
of an individualism for which anything not coerced
can be instantly jettisoned.

To be lonely is to experience solitude as a victim.

   "Lunula

O luna novella,
Es digna fabella
Quae versibus edat

Itinera Sputnik
Tam ardua ut nic--
Tans Lucifer cedat."

--Van L. Johnson, The Classical Outlook (Dec 1957)

"Legend has it that Julius Caesar invented the art of
reading silently." --Thomas Winter

" 'I have never been prouder of my profession,' he
remarks, 'than when my friend Dorothy Day (the
Catholic pacifist) told me of something that happened
when she did some time in the Women's House of
Detention. Each prisoner was taken out to be bathed
once a week. Dorothy shared a cell with a whore and,
when the time came, Dorothy's cellmate was led off
toward the shower chanting a line from Auden:
"Thousands have lived without love, not one without
water".' " --In the Autumn of the Age of Anxiety,
Alan Levy (1983) [interviews w/ A.]

I think it'd be wise to assume from now on that none of
my ideas is truly new or unique but that my perceptions
may very well be--though i tend to believe the converse.
An insight is first a perception: and by conceptualizing
it it passes through a prism of language in which some
qualities are bound to be lost, and conventional ones
added. A due respect for ideas will acknowledge the
tragedy of their birth. A due respect for the moment
will seek not spontaneity but openness to grace.

"It's perfectly all right to be an engagé writer
as long as you don't think you're changing things.
Art is our chief means of breaking bread with the dead...
but the social and political history of Europe would be
exactly the same if Dante and Shakespeare and Mozart
had never lived." --Auden loc cit [What about Langland?]

Barbarians oversimplify into banality, decadents overelaborate
into obfuscation. High culture means clarity in complexity.

"Even one alone verse sometimes makes a perfect poeme."
--Ben Jonson, Discoveries

A brief history of the Car Horn Organ. (via Fiendish Word)

Candybar wrapper embroidery. (ditto)

Stumbling on Lovecraft's grave.

Some good remarks on poetry by Joe Ahearn. (via Ptarmigan)

   "Under the Ion Hammer" (for Verbophobia)

Master of kiteslipt Spetznaz, amnesia is our leader;
Determinancy gone, abductee is our leader.

The tenuous adhesion of a cotton hush
Yields prismatic derangement whose rent church is our leader.

In strawberry fields of self-hypnosis i too roamed:
A maple sapper of the charcoal is our leader.

And your good squirm of lurid flashbangs now protrusive
As kudzu, cannot fail to dub you as our leader.

Leader! into caverns worn with jackboot march
No throe may deflect; epigraph: flambeau is our leader.

11-15-03

"The Poem is a fire-hunt, the Poet an animal charmed in one
spot, eyes fixed to the light." --Susan Howe, My Emily
Dickinson (1985)

'What is poetry but fog gathering around the light of a
sword?" --In-Hoon Choi, The Daily Life of Ku-Poh the Novelist,
tr Ki-Chang Hong (1985)

'Lines of a poem may well be compared to tangled vines or jags
of rock in the woods over which man trips, when human life is called
the woods metaphorically.' --ibid

"Apostrophe catastrophes; evolution & Diana. I lop ill
agonism, urge of Edward's. Mures & pop--none. Smetana--I?
Latitude along a cadet animal. & stops, knits, Avallon kat,
Ipoh soma & severe Wolf, a yaw, Harris.
O, O.K. Oklahoma lad: laws, Odessa,
Flahaut, namely Ebert, nectar, Aramaism, a matey & O
cap worn. O worst cad Ero, Tom, Oedipal wed agnates. O! minae,
Nifo, Evita (Gen.), Laro month, guan eras, no it. Cafe Lam
lived. Nas deed. Simla. Gellis, Dr. Awkward, & deer gas. Id,
Mabel E. Bam. O gab! Mulish P. Muir, Tamar, Oenone romps,
ahaniger always, Bob & one film. Sin--a gap? Oenomel,
ogaks.
   I ram a tenable Bratslav & I am mum
re. Cape Matapan..." --Dr Awkward & Olson in Oslo