A light is produced by heated argument.
How the cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two. In the first, taxonomies are set in weathered deco, dimly lit by the affiliated overflow while astronomers stand there from a famous university with nothing to give back. It’s a downtown-to-Washington-on-to-nowhere, a very mean place to get to, all right — erratically stencilled with tweezers-length trapezoids at its austere outer rings.

Taxonomy, to get back to the cosmos, stands tiptoe atop shoulders of ascending ideas, forgetting the raw laborers below lined up on broken mosaics, necks pounding from overtime.

In the mental part, covert specialists use tightly wound diversions to gain advantage for incriminating thoughts, the goal of which is to pillory hindsight. They march with different cause-ists and solons halfway; paternalism indulged through wisecracks. But most of the others, humanists, are reformed as divas and idiots in the minority and they take the bullets; why?

We'll be right back.
“Stutterers stutter trying not to stutter.”
We’re the only nation that flies into hurricanes. (DA Levy)
Hearts skip a beat, that’s a symptom.
Selfimage cairnheaded affidation — I beg your pardon.
Ola Academy —
It’s a big screen with a smallish but coming role. No security or scalability, improvising anyway with few in the backdrop, a circular ambiguity that hangs over the ‘film’ business.

Ghost anthems rise, fall. We’re dragged to their outdoor awards ceremony tho, moist, asleep.

My own moments up for review leave us unseen. My gratitude, clouds of sleeping film lovers in waiting — for quickening what I mean and waiting on more running on shore in Henleys! And I want to note the Academy encouraged me to try wind surfing in black and white zinc mesh and differential probability.

In between, this tendency of ours must decide what blank is. Could I redefine it as a pleasant restraint moving onto zealotry to diagram your happiness? Or conceive of a spatial paradox with enough scholarship transference, taunting the authentic equipoise of a kiss..


Sonnets under command are familiar splashes of watercolorist anesthesia: Take my place being places (an event in tropes) —

Meantime, ping. We’re here for discovery then inflection in lap pools of condensed matter from excursions through the aquatic world.
The named oceans are dated,
Pouting, getting better! When they come to — there’ll be perorations re-framing rainwater within fairer scents almost rimming sunlight in suspension, ripped off

Amputated chutes:

Grape vines burst out, nonlackluster. Though I love grime, Camille’s guilt-making — her carrying me through, unphased: She does this to deplete me of hope.

1st choice for a sonnet is to solve for x. Be funny and coalesce.

Dear multiple choices from eternity: Send a message I can wolf down. Convey a sense of urgency that’s superfluous. Then put Camille off.


Celebrity stalkers are in the grips of mistaken identity, immune to sudden desire with intimacy. What have they got to lose?

Bags and bags of money paid to reflection in infinite battle with consciousness.

China’s philosophers are not unique carrying on traditions the Massasoit transmit.

I’m going over Clark Coolidge’s Space (1970), a hardcover like-new copy given to me by a young poet from Worcester who came to a Cambridge reading by Michael Carr and Bruce Andrews a few years ago; the poet from Worcester just handed it to me. Jasper Johns cover. Harper & Row publishers. Almost fifty years ago — Harper & Row — Coolidge — hardcover. in / than / end // // look / an / mess. How about these titles. “Echo & Mildew”; “Milk on the Lob”; “Soda Gong”; “The Image Furnace, under Brine.”


We’re always writing where the living talk to the dead, boasting of their willingness to compromise.

We are The We Are So Sorry
Thesis Study Group — writing in
Extremely quick intervals (about a tenth of a millionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second) and short distances (about a billionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a half inch) — just as dad, quantum flux, drives through space-time — delimiting terrestrial ideas of up/down, day/night, before/after, you know the rest.

Cinema likenesses are profuse or would be if we probed more IRA Nippon mirror jewels.

That’s why a good film treatment is a terrific poem.

Usually. I did not like the smell in the brain sketch.

Was that yours?
Are you sitting in the sentence
listening ? wearing nothing but
eagerness for a motive to
hear what we were afraid to be?


It’s easy, too uniform now.
Once back in the day the fair-minded had complex appetites,
when pragma-morphism brainstormed over innocence

in the larger context there was no recidivism to fashion.
Dante nibbled fast, in very mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.

There was a terrific wine list — and that made for twists,
drinking perfusions, he had at strangers shedding their platform shoes.
The prose poem has changed due to English.
One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to demark the unknown, much as technology funds science.

The technology of capital. How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...

From Iraq, Africa, Brazil to Hiroshima, back in Syria, graphic measures of tragi-comedic obliteration.

All this time Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

They’ll have us over when life and death crack some heads of automation...


At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there spunk nationwide is on your side.

It goes with a backhand irony like a pigeon guided missile or guard at the gate.
The front gate won’t front
As there are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.

All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber — I’m about to walk the spiral and more!
Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
Coupons expire.


Sway your head. That means dance.

Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.
Read this. I did.
It’s half in libretto.

Try something cartoonish. I’m whirling around, pens and markers in hand in roughly 4 minute stints. Learning something about what I mean, high jinks soar belying despair over entropy, a quiet smoke, zero gravity!


Small islands serve as hideouts. Safety regulators are restless. Excellent. We shall conquer childhood, read over the presentation, juggle a few heads. You’ll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. I’ll invade your space then leave later, lately.
Later Lately
Ted Greenwald
Cuneiform, 2015

There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them.
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 11.

I may continue to be pressed on cardboard.
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.”

One’s soul is on break, in a style of incompletion (Otto Bismarck),
Obsequious, sharpened anomalies & bait :

: A new music took off about here.
We slow up together.

We are one species
Meaning many wishes at one time all over time :
2 out of 20 come around.


Back when we’re on our own
as our only bard put it, his face

Boiling sad together.
Not pretty but there in print: played around

A back to romance pile up. Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata
moods — for all time rigged

To a full practice in one truce or august matter; lone
autumns & springs mutating in dark

Chez no one who stayed home,
played and slowed down to furnish the pace,

Prelude to singing along alone
Bohemian in his own anger to confuse.

Retour lorsque nous sommes sur notre propre,
comme le seul barde de notre époque, il l’a dit, un visage

.. ébullition triste tout ensemble.
Pas très joli mais il est en version imprimée et autour

Un retour à romance jusqu’au tas en espièglerie. Rythmes environ envie, la fugue-sonate
avec humeurs de tous les temps qui sont truquées

A une pratique complète concernant une trêve ou une question énorme.. où
les saisons d’automne, aux printemps, tous solitaires, sont en mutation dans l’obscurité.

— absolument personne — personne ne reste à la maison
on est ralenti, à fournir le rythme —

Un prélude à chanter seul
dans le cadre de la colère d’origine afin de confondre tout.
I’ll take it.
That way of answering the phone has passed.

A command loss.
I’m bipolar. You know. What?

We can make a poem go mute.
If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.

A world-less deaf-mute.
Affordable Noh. That’s us w/ big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook breathing pedagogy when we meet, somersaulting in /

What goes around then comes gasping, the more irregular the verb:

At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — cadet-ed!

Inductions to your other habits ..

Gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium..

A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.


The drill of local news, temperature, hours of indebtedness, mayhem, a fascinating stack of known challenges — locale reduced to the economy, co-rejecting isms not centric. Both influence perception, both engage what leftists and the right make up as sources. Nothing in between. Nothing to uphold. More below.
It’s simple / the invention of worship is over..
so much over: the topic is civility, imparting numeric dicta slathered across century-old middle ground, the themeless module (where we sleep) and fields of action (where we continue playing around vulgar innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile) fully emancipating me to feel obliged to receive you generously.

We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with given theory. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to the ideal civil democratic union with permissions built on headwinds —

yet with as it were or without manners. Good manners can scar others but they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as tho subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy.
Either way, I know so little about the state and the state so much less — these are the facts slaughtered by memory.
A wild or perhaps even a good guess as to what readers crave is a byproduct of becoming a decent reader. One writer rarely reads alone, and that’s part of the saga of collectivity and simultaneity. She and others pick up similar texts, comparable projects; snowballs start flying. When a writer thinks in public about what she is reading, she’s taking aim and will be aimed at in turn, pro and con. This is one yarn, hardly superfluous, of opinion acclimatization.

The signature concern is the reader’s experience. This concern is peculiarly self-fascinated, another point; that so many writers simultaneously figure out readers’ expectations within multiple selves, functioning in extra literary contexts, estranged politics, cultural de-/re-construction, academic-corporate performance theory and the like.

Eileen Myles is central to making sense of these multiple elements often living her own habits and pleasures in the present tense, exposing her ‘other’ for what she is to her readers.

More off-center: Nicole Brossard tames her otherness and the other-directedness that she (writer) and (s)he (reader) share.

Reading Myles you are immersed in her momentary, empathetic presence. When reading Brossard you want implicitly to inquire into her brazen iconoclasm. It would be abetting deeper juxtaposition to bracket one’s enjoyment just to explore the ordinarily unknown. How does Brossard know? How does she improvise? How do you account for a received notion “being in the present”? Even better.

on levait la tête on aimait les petits arbres
derrière le fer forgé du cinquième étage
personne ne tombait jamais
plus bas que notre habitude de la vie

[taking pleasure in these trees, looking up
through the 5th floor wrought iron
nobody ever falls lower than
this, what we make our habit in life]

The narrator who claims personne ne tombait jamais speaks for anyone who wants and takes pleasure with no palpable fear of falling.

While translating freely is not always the fairest compliment a writer may pay another, it is one entry for finding points of empathy (How does she improvise?) as well as beginning to appreciate Brossard’s command of what she suggests here (How does she know?). And in four short lines we stumble across habitude. It is a writer’s answer, Brossard’s answer for now, to be in and of the present.