How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and by pulling the trigger, I replace
subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: there are structure, acquisition, use, media — no eros in no ideas.
Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic allergens.
If those are allowed. A gig, a pop up...
Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...
We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,
The great We of fish, that's what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.
12/25/20
A gentle love’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet / jewel thief wearing a dress, I might think it profitable to string my sentences together just like paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched as in the déshabillé of John Waters’ suburban flats, adroitly inexpensive & passé. Each sentence would go on to shine in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible, recognizable style — sparkle double-dulled-down as I drape my next dress over bowls of Chesapeake crabs & rat traps, a near accident or an accident-in-the-making.
Skepticism is an exact sequence blacklisted by metonyms. Time to respect poets.
There’s something left of an emergent zone for habitual procedures.
Bend down.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.
You can’t predict what we’ll do with straw men and hard winds, and there aren’t enough white flags flying to encapsulate your suspicions.
There’s something left of an emergent zone for habitual procedures.
Bend down.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.
You can’t predict what we’ll do with straw men and hard winds, and there aren’t enough white flags flying to encapsulate your suspicions.
58: Deserting the beach — god forbid
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your call, a handshake
spreads the rain,
flowers, rain,
flowers.
(That’s it! Do what you want.
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we
can walk away with. Good. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our
widows.
This is spring history.)
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your call, a handshake
spreads the rain,
flowers, rain,
flowers.
(That’s it! Do what you want.
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we
can walk away with. Good. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our
widows.
This is spring history.)
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 on ethics...
Further: If poetics is a democracy, evasion in poetics is subject to scrutiny.
Don’t get me wrong I think free speech is nominal, so there’s freedom to evade. If not speech, evasion is a speech act. I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend (that’s down). What’s it? There’s no workaround to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.
End quote.
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 on ethics...
Further: If poetics is a democracy, evasion in poetics is subject to scrutiny.
Don’t get me wrong I think free speech is nominal, so there’s freedom to evade. If not speech, evasion is a speech act. I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend (that’s down). What’s it? There’s no workaround to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.
End quote.
We are the last generations who have short lifetimes.
Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and
capital variables w/ an October surprise.
That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed ..
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams.
Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.
Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and
capital variables w/ an October surprise.
That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed ..
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams.
Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.
12/24/20
Holidays again. A violet mist.
This is prison.
(You have the evidence. Ugh!)
Losers = worshippers of their detractors.
Heaven is in our hearts with an egg drop of credos and documents,
From which large scale dull instruments get tossed.
We drink to our mistakes.
I swear while we continue and travel further
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was
Wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also a director here — one of them.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:
Spencerian, stranded leaving war to the professionals.
This is prison.
(You have the evidence. Ugh!)
Losers = worshippers of their detractors.
Heaven is in our hearts with an egg drop of credos and documents,
From which large scale dull instruments get tossed.
We drink to our mistakes.
I swear while we continue and travel further
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was
Wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also a director here — one of them.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:
Spencerian, stranded leaving war to the professionals.
36: Radial repetitions. There they go. Altho seeming the one,
you’re one of mine. Yet you get so far then stop. You’re not alone.
You may not be my one delight — for you are not solely mine. It’s a shame tho we honor our inner living love as it divides us into hours alone. I confess — or let me confess both of us are separable, each shamed into love of a sort with altered effects —
Your love, mine — blotted remains from our rapacious nervous systems distorting our love, honored it seems, set to break into two, (borne alone again, radially).
you’re one of mine. Yet you get so far then stop. You’re not alone.
You may not be my one delight — for you are not solely mine. It’s a shame tho we honor our inner living love as it divides us into hours alone. I confess — or let me confess both of us are separable, each shamed into love of a sort with altered effects —
Your love, mine — blotted remains from our rapacious nervous systems distorting our love, honored it seems, set to break into two, (borne alone again, radially).
I’ll do what I can. It wears on me.
Smothered abstractions take time. Another day, slim odds. Almost hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for killing the moment. Yet paranoia’s belated audition traps me if I let go while not assuming authority.
Evasion tho provides an advanced style, state-of-art restraint — the harsh gets exaggerated.
One more day to recover your losses mid-grin.
Smothered abstractions take time. Another day, slim odds. Almost hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for killing the moment. Yet paranoia’s belated audition traps me if I let go while not assuming authority.
Evasion tho provides an advanced style, state-of-art restraint — the harsh gets exaggerated.
One more day to recover your losses mid-grin.
Let’s dance. I defy you.
Empiricists map people for amoral purposes, they know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness.
I’ll follow conventional physics, tho, and change no findings I stumble across
but I’ll focus on pure benefits that accrue, often in the future. Newer inconsistencies never bother w/ governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up anyway, in an infinite series w/in each day’s essay test. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.)
As you were.
(The acting chief of staff so responded.
Suspiciously correct.)
Empiricists map people for amoral purposes, they know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness.
I’ll follow conventional physics, tho, and change no findings I stumble across
but I’ll focus on pure benefits that accrue, often in the future. Newer inconsistencies never bother w/ governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up anyway, in an infinite series w/in each day’s essay test. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.)
As you were.
(The acting chief of staff so responded.
Suspiciously correct.)
12/23/20
Since we gave up on poetry, singalong has vaulted to the top of the agenda. Leaving office has a double meaning to off-center the filing (filtering) system and other singularities I’ve kept versed in for years. We have no limits to affirm any retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, dire pleasures, majestic plans and, this most generalized I guess, burningly turning back, looking on while the wax dims.
Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse —
I’m your doorsill to walk on and grin at in anguish..
Open up —
Textual anarchy can muddy and arbitrate convictions.
The crisis is now. Catch your falling voice.
Form is no object but slots of hooded activity, dreams into photos — your getting to turn channels keeping to your non-hegemonic pulse — wailing out of a tunnel.
I’m your doorsill to walk on and grin at in anguish..
Open up —
Textual anarchy can muddy and arbitrate convictions.
The crisis is now. Catch your falling voice.
Form is no object but slots of hooded activity, dreams into photos — your getting to turn channels keeping to your non-hegemonic pulse — wailing out of a tunnel.
52: I’m in lock-up because of you.
Therefore both you and I are scorekeepers. Ours.
I keep you among other jewels,
Blasted yet blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The longer time it takes, seldom coming in one fine day —
Over time special instants so rare —
Until then, being had by you has been worth it as it were
Like euphoria, proof of doubt uncovering finer points.
And speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others like us also keep to the survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.
Therefore both you and I are scorekeepers. Ours.
I keep you among other jewels,
Blasted yet blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The longer time it takes, seldom coming in one fine day —
Over time special instants so rare —
Until then, being had by you has been worth it as it were
Like euphoria, proof of doubt uncovering finer points.
And speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others like us also keep to the survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.
When I hear topical shifts forward hidden risks it’s iterative, baroque in other words —
oh yah pulled awake again.
That guy is the 1st to get a grip and hold.
Mr Peanut twisted once again to look up. I hadn’t expected it. On the other hand, what choice did he have?
There’s a term in telephony, ‘room tone,’ ordinary silence. My heart stopped altogether as I held my breath, then he answered.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Oh, em…”
“No. It’s not.”
“I would.”
“Well l—”
“You know what..”
“Promise..”
“Yeah, I think —”
What I heard while we both waited was room tone. The next five or six seconds would matter. In an hour he would walk us both down to clear our heads. He waited a moment more, then he said, “I’ve just noticed I haven’t said anything.”
oh yah pulled awake again.
That guy is the 1st to get a grip and hold.
Mr Peanut twisted once again to look up. I hadn’t expected it. On the other hand, what choice did he have?
There’s a term in telephony, ‘room tone,’ ordinary silence. My heart stopped altogether as I held my breath, then he answered.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Oh, em…”
“No. It’s not.”
“I would.”
“Well l—”
“You know what..”
“Promise..”
“Yeah, I think —”
What I heard while we both waited was room tone. The next five or six seconds would matter. In an hour he would walk us both down to clear our heads. He waited a moment more, then he said, “I’ve just noticed I haven’t said anything.”
Mortality can’t be beat. A big send-off but
no amnesty? A ship is on the way
from mare nostrum
or / & like crustaceans we had to give in, to forgetfulness for now. No static I could see.
Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills w/ sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe w/ its bible pedigree & thumbnail intensity, semi-transparent.
Before that yoga was fantastic, a soothing coterie added to sempiternal space & entered into w/ a worldview w/out language achieving access to felt qualities.
no amnesty? A ship is on the way
from mare nostrum
or / & like crustaceans we had to give in, to forgetfulness for now. No static I could see.
Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills w/ sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe w/ its bible pedigree & thumbnail intensity, semi-transparent.
Before that yoga was fantastic, a soothing coterie added to sempiternal space & entered into w/ a worldview w/out language achieving access to felt qualities.
12/22/20
No pleasure, just a breather, but not while eating.
The show was called; the rain spat. (I'm sorry al fresco’s bad then.)
Yes. My voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.
The music took off about here. 1st smelt feminine along abandoned quays but now looking sharp with canals and minimalist carvings.
We viewed them before the high brutalism of fine dining (Otto Dix).
A violinist, hesitant but banging it out better tonight. This starts our cuisine engines mid-grin.
Tho evasion foregrounds our coerced motives so they sink in more.
The show was called; the rain spat. (I'm sorry al fresco’s bad then.)
Yes. My voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.
The music took off about here. 1st smelt feminine along abandoned quays but now looking sharp with canals and minimalist carvings.
We viewed them before the high brutalism of fine dining (Otto Dix).
A violinist, hesitant but banging it out better tonight. This starts our cuisine engines mid-grin.
Tho evasion foregrounds our coerced motives so they sink in more.
Landscape: Driving over taking stock of action figures.
What’s my business? The apertures told me to spin off, and that led to my holding
all these amusing volatility models from T.V., vocalism in a sense.
The point ahead is to enable the passing tourney among seductive locals
to nuance hidden risks shifting weight (merging accounts request).
Modern proceedings like these day after day, not stopping, not finishing
What’s my business? The apertures told me to spin off, and that led to my holding
all these amusing volatility models from T.V., vocalism in a sense.
The point ahead is to enable the passing tourney among seductive locals
to nuance hidden risks shifting weight (merging accounts request).
Modern proceedings like these day after day, not stopping, not finishing
12: This is a fugue in your full name..
we’ll talk this time.. talk bristly.
We won’t count the hideous silvered clock — how telling in its barren prime..
Yes, we’re spry in our bravery, our spring movements and motives, agile yet underhanded
getting back to catch the hang of how time gives and takes.
You may notice we’re defenseless, forsaken, since we must go on, borne
regardless, wives girded up in sheaves, older men on biers with white, bristly beards.
Any time today then subject to fast change
as sweets and beauties are disarranged —
Never saw them coming, old and new succumbing to murder and death — but not here, with you —
We brave you more, questioning you as if we never waste our time through summer,
your beauty growing so well now into the future..
we’ll talk this time.. talk bristly.
We won’t count the hideous silvered clock — how telling in its barren prime..
Yes, we’re spry in our bravery, our spring movements and motives, agile yet underhanded
getting back to catch the hang of how time gives and takes.
You may notice we’re defenseless, forsaken, since we must go on, borne
regardless, wives girded up in sheaves, older men on biers with white, bristly beards.
Any time today then subject to fast change
as sweets and beauties are disarranged —
Never saw them coming, old and new succumbing to murder and death — but not here, with you —
We brave you more, questioning you as if we never waste our time through summer,
your beauty growing so well now into the future..
*
This is an impressions album. Or it was. Youth is so impressionable.
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, interatomic movement grows smug in writing it down. Large and tiny instincts proceed within mixed episodes and a school of red herrings..
Encore..
Like nowhere else in space,
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a smack of already regretting it conjoins an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ mixed brays.
Music, if viable, of bee vapor. All our neighbors are mirror bees. Am I not one?
This is an impressions album. Or it was. Youth is so impressionable.
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, interatomic movement grows smug in writing it down. Large and tiny instincts proceed within mixed episodes and a school of red herrings..
Encore..
Like nowhere else in space,
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a smack of already regretting it conjoins an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ mixed brays.
Music, if viable, of bee vapor. All our neighbors are mirror bees. Am I not one?
12/21/20
See, is it a pigeon?
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up ornithology or disconnective meanings of jazz composition — also, a table for the counters of instinct and learning in the shortness of thought. Then there is objurgating.
As I’m happiest procrastinating when stairwells mesh and go nowhere between you and expulsion, for the hole in my cohesion is closed.
Turn here, there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting to your own perks.
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up ornithology or disconnective meanings of jazz composition — also, a table for the counters of instinct and learning in the shortness of thought. Then there is objurgating.
As I’m happiest procrastinating when stairwells mesh and go nowhere between you and expulsion, for the hole in my cohesion is closed.
Turn here, there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting to your own perks.
99: Stay on the hunt, tough to please, stand up (ouch)
even as vengeful tectonic plates annex
our fears, shame and despair.
To you, a purple violet seems grossly dyed, your soft cheek
raining havoc for lilies.. marjoram, my love’s breath, your breath. (Uh.) Here’s where you and I lose the scent. Ever
-yone does. Clouded (ouch)
flames ennoble the sky to blush through
my lover’s veins, your hands, both of us among thorns ..
condemned for pride, proud I’m going on my nerve stolen from you.
even as vengeful tectonic plates annex
our fears, shame and despair.
To you, a purple violet seems grossly dyed, your soft cheek
raining havoc for lilies.. marjoram, my love’s breath, your breath. (Uh.) Here’s where you and I lose the scent. Ever
-yone does. Clouded (ouch)
flames ennoble the sky to blush through
my lover’s veins, your hands, both of us among thorns ..
condemned for pride, proud I’m going on my nerve stolen from you.
Affordable Noh. That’s both of us w/ big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook when we meet, somersaulting in.
What went around then came 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 —
The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium
A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.
Noh stuff.
What went around then came 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 —
The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium
A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.
Noh stuff.
I’ve been on a nihilism binge; this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a structuralist’s degree.
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..
There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..
There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.
12/20/20
I could live next to a place with water views. I would continue feeling deprived per diem.
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!
I could live next to a place with water views. I would continue feeling deprived per diem.
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!
9: No form of you
Feels anything but used, average.. a spent, destructive sort of guilt, blandness also a problem.
Your world consumed in issueless fears of political experience / current status / winning outright =
Hey here I am! Staying single you and I may change our minds!
I already forgot to.
Could we? ah! you and I are loved by many. I’ll commit, in sleep ...
We are gracious, watched over and settled into a kindly already unthrifty shifting
Still, but enjoying practice, wailing, banging triangles and drums ...
Your private voice as wet as children’s eyes. Look.
I wake [Ah!] — My own voice hoarsens
A life desire talking with you,
But no form of you tonight.
Feels anything but used, average.. a spent, destructive sort of guilt, blandness also a problem.
Your world consumed in issueless fears of political experience / current status / winning outright =
Hey here I am! Staying single you and I may change our minds!
I already forgot to.
Could we? ah! you and I are loved by many. I’ll commit, in sleep ...
We are gracious, watched over and settled into a kindly already unthrifty shifting
Still, but enjoying practice, wailing, banging triangles and drums ...
Your private voice as wet as children’s eyes. Look.
I wake [Ah!] — My own voice hoarsens
A life desire talking with you,
But no form of you tonight.
I’m instructed by Alice Notley writing about Frank O’Hara in the first essay of Coming After, re-alerting us to the weight of his last poems that I still resist, a voice that’s “anonymous and communal (in the bad sense) in its exploitation of verbal mediocrity.” Notley sees O’Hara influenced by the “deadly flat diction” of television (the first generation of such pervasiveness), thus affects of the heinous sort, offering up “warnings.”Also in the same essay, on an earlier poem of O’Hara’s, Notley interjects, “the Buddha fucking well ought to think at this point in history,” a rousing supposition on her part about what O’Hara meant by ending “Image of the Buddha Preaching” this way: “...hopeful of a new delay in terror / I don’t think” — deeply stoic of O’Hara and Notley.
We repeat there are rules to doing morning:
Sleep in without a rehearsal,
Coax a situation back.
You're only human, Fu dog.
How can you care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for architecture, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike poetry’s pocketknife connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?
Sleep in without a rehearsal,
Coax a situation back.
You're only human, Fu dog.
How can you care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for architecture, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike poetry’s pocketknife connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?
12/19/20
Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — hints I don’t care.
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing. Force the window.
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, open it to how
turbulence wakes... and your eyelids more active, blinking. A sign your
push reaches a pull where time management is good hearted, unleashed.
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing. Force the window.
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, open it to how
turbulence wakes... and your eyelids more active, blinking. A sign your
push reaches a pull where time management is good hearted, unleashed.
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.
123: Lament — I defy you and your truth —
I trust only the lasting timetables born of our desire. Nothing novel. Nothing strange.
Our continual haste, our poor retention, our briefer dates give me the butterflies and more butterflies chasing more —
as 10 to the 10th more wind up as polygamists barnstorming thru
a winging-it hemisphere where I can never forget you. Not you!
I trust only the lasting timetables born of our desire. Nothing novel. Nothing strange.
Our continual haste, our poor retention, our briefer dates give me the butterflies and more butterflies chasing more —
as 10 to the 10th more wind up as polygamists barnstorming thru
a winging-it hemisphere where I can never forget you. Not you!
The small of his back sends me packing.
Sulking with a hygienic view forward.
— On an Old Testament.. I pledged a wholly hidden idiom
Of renderings, spotlighting what’s
Missing!
The cracks should be bridged with the view outside, pears and Fuji oak, null
Passages in fog, moos of approval. Lots.
I then bring us over to our original towel, leaving what’s left to chance.
Sulking with a hygienic view forward.
— On an Old Testament.. I pledged a wholly hidden idiom
Of renderings, spotlighting what’s
Missing!
The cracks should be bridged with the view outside, pears and Fuji oak, null
Passages in fog, moos of approval. Lots.
I then bring us over to our original towel, leaving what’s left to chance.
You won’t win. It happens fast. Less than a flash... the kisses you depend on disappear. Past and present, neither play of emphasis false, soundtracks on pulleys, suspicious... these tracks overlaid w/ speech you keep delaying. I’m so sorry the music became an investment vein to punch into and pull-quote from.
Sorry, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you have to do ...
Choose love as a buy or rental option, both equidistant from love’s defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise visits within quanta. (Too many to tell.)
Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off slower tangential constructs plucked out of a big number of now-dead emotions.
Also suspicious, emulations of you both, standing up without sticking too close, detouring into aah
choo! the roof of your mouth unhinged keeping suspicion lukewarm to the bridge of his nose.
Sorry, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you have to do ...
Choose love as a buy or rental option, both equidistant from love’s defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise visits within quanta. (Too many to tell.)
Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off slower tangential constructs plucked out of a big number of now-dead emotions.
Also suspicious, emulations of you both, standing up without sticking too close, detouring into aah
choo! the roof of your mouth unhinged keeping suspicion lukewarm to the bridge of his nose.
12/18/20
Ted Greenwald
3
Cuneiform 2008
Here are the bizarre details, page 25, second stanza (of two).
Is it Peggy or Sue
I think I love you
Looking worldlessness
Remind me what's your name
Four ideas capture crucial goings-on in one’s pleasant complacency of clichéd language upended, in this case, by the deliberate problematizing of early rock ’n roll iconography, splitting chaste Peggy Sue in two — there is the shameless rhyming of Sue with the next line also ripped from an early r ’n r songbook as is the last line; and there’s the masterfully silly statement that spins our entire cultural orientation on its heels, forcing speculation the unstably-named Peggy, Sue or, in fact, Peggy Sue is not only worldless but stuck in the eerie, pathetic State of The Worldless.
Welcome back.
And if you think page 25 is a lucky pick, turn to page 27, second stanza (of two).
Going to make a difference
Greens, cooling off
Projectile confidence
With birdsong
The first line is again boilerplate, a bloated participial (or gerundive) phrase uttered millions of times an hour; the second line, culinary description or acute art speak — either way greens are consonant with the brash birdsong in the fourth line. Once more, that odd Line 3 rips the ‘scene’ open, pitching its payload our way. It’s not always so obvious that the third line re-orders each stanza, but frequently this is what happens, supporting one interpretation of the title 3. More satisfying is Ron Padgett’s idea, blurbing that 3 “takes the mind in at least three different directions simultaneously...”
Another basis for the title is that the collection has three parts. Poems cited above are from “Going Into School That Day,” pieces whose lengths alternate between eight lines on right pages and 14 lines on left pages, and which borrow “words of self-described redemption spoken by the late Salvador Agron,” as Greenwald explains on his copyright page. (Agron was a gang member who killed two teenagers in Hell’s Kitchen.) The two following sections contain pieces of parallel discourse strategy in different formats, “Anyway” with six-line verses, “Dawn On” with poems of 27 lines each. The language in the later sections is as watchful (“Looking”) for the everyday and as defiantly juxtaposed as that in the first section. Here are opening lines to the first poem in “Dawn On.”
Dawn on
As, iffy
Be so kind, looks on
The clear light Friendlies
Embody the money, short for
Inscribe on to forever iris inside clasp
Suggestions unhinge putting something on if
Embody the body all on about
Suggestions unhinge iris inside clasp...
The longer pieces in “Dawn On” allow Greenwald to battle with a sweep of communally mediated ironies, such as “clear light Friendlies,” and pivotal thought experiments engaging repetitions in language and implosions in meaning as with the shifts in the verbs embody, unhinge. This first poem continues such repetitions, doing it blithely, “bubble,” “happily,” “light,” “live,” and this: “Love most about muse excuse / Come across, bait and switch ... Come across muse excuse..." These experiments are not over and may never get resolved, a State of The Worldless that Greenwald nevertheless kisses if not marries, since it’s all of a projectile, a “fussball bubble / Nod happily feet many language.” The invite is out there, according to Greenwald, “The clear light looks on..."
3
Cuneiform 2008
Here are the bizarre details, page 25, second stanza (of two).
Is it Peggy or Sue
I think I love you
Looking worldlessness
Remind me what's your name
Four ideas capture crucial goings-on in one’s pleasant complacency of clichéd language upended, in this case, by the deliberate problematizing of early rock ’n roll iconography, splitting chaste Peggy Sue in two — there is the shameless rhyming of Sue with the next line also ripped from an early r ’n r songbook as is the last line; and there’s the masterfully silly statement that spins our entire cultural orientation on its heels, forcing speculation the unstably-named Peggy, Sue or, in fact, Peggy Sue is not only worldless but stuck in the eerie, pathetic State of The Worldless.
Welcome back.
And if you think page 25 is a lucky pick, turn to page 27, second stanza (of two).
Going to make a difference
Greens, cooling off
Projectile confidence
With birdsong
The first line is again boilerplate, a bloated participial (or gerundive) phrase uttered millions of times an hour; the second line, culinary description or acute art speak — either way greens are consonant with the brash birdsong in the fourth line. Once more, that odd Line 3 rips the ‘scene’ open, pitching its payload our way. It’s not always so obvious that the third line re-orders each stanza, but frequently this is what happens, supporting one interpretation of the title 3. More satisfying is Ron Padgett’s idea, blurbing that 3 “takes the mind in at least three different directions simultaneously...”
Another basis for the title is that the collection has three parts. Poems cited above are from “Going Into School That Day,” pieces whose lengths alternate between eight lines on right pages and 14 lines on left pages, and which borrow “words of self-described redemption spoken by the late Salvador Agron,” as Greenwald explains on his copyright page. (Agron was a gang member who killed two teenagers in Hell’s Kitchen.) The two following sections contain pieces of parallel discourse strategy in different formats, “Anyway” with six-line verses, “Dawn On” with poems of 27 lines each. The language in the later sections is as watchful (“Looking”) for the everyday and as defiantly juxtaposed as that in the first section. Here are opening lines to the first poem in “Dawn On.”
Dawn on
As, iffy
Be so kind, looks on
The clear light Friendlies
Embody the money, short for
Inscribe on to forever iris inside clasp
Suggestions unhinge putting something on if
Embody the body all on about
Suggestions unhinge iris inside clasp...
The longer pieces in “Dawn On” allow Greenwald to battle with a sweep of communally mediated ironies, such as “clear light Friendlies,” and pivotal thought experiments engaging repetitions in language and implosions in meaning as with the shifts in the verbs embody, unhinge. This first poem continues such repetitions, doing it blithely, “bubble,” “happily,” “light,” “live,” and this: “Love most about muse excuse / Come across, bait and switch ... Come across muse excuse..." These experiments are not over and may never get resolved, a State of The Worldless that Greenwald nevertheless kisses if not marries, since it’s all of a projectile, a “fussball bubble / Nod happily feet many language.” The invite is out there, according to Greenwald, “The clear light looks on..."
A fond prayer as the rain falls.
Your eyes are dark dreamy and tell me I never did anything right,
For which my shared experience goes to waste.
A poetry of slogans earns the Balzac Award..
Folk-maverick, a dark scrum. Adolescent in a heavenly sense..
You keep telling lies about me in spacious quarters to hosts in abstraction.
Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
That about covers it.
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.
Got to run, prose.
Your eyes are dark dreamy and tell me I never did anything right,
For which my shared experience goes to waste.
A poetry of slogans earns the Balzac Award..
Folk-maverick, a dark scrum. Adolescent in a heavenly sense..
You keep telling lies about me in spacious quarters to hosts in abstraction.
Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
That about covers it.
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.
Got to run, prose.
54: You’re back!
Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they were living within you — and like you — perfumes were of dark matter, the unmasked buds that distill a civilizing beauty far ahead of summer’s space
Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.
Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they were living within you — and like you — perfumes were of dark matter, the unmasked buds that distill a civilizing beauty far ahead of summer’s space
Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.
Have we no will, no interest to shed our platform ambiguity?
Rationed atheism has long been a main event. High sectarian payments find a handy balance (organ music), ceiling arches in steam and rush-formatted white ‘sky’ disappearing in compatible multiplicities (plainsong for copulation). Late afternoon to others.
Rationed atheism has long been a main event. High sectarian payments find a handy balance (organ music), ceiling arches in steam and rush-formatted white ‘sky’ disappearing in compatible multiplicities (plainsong for copulation). Late afternoon to others.
I feel socialist. Rifling thru market snapshots, validating
The center
More than any single system, a tenet of
A huge agnostic discipline
About attitudes behind morals.
You know this open and shut —
But take it down again / or thumb thru
The balance left over from a computer
Of pure tides. Inhabit the tidal brim
To the point you don’t have to know more yoga than
We know now — less than nothing.
The center
More than any single system, a tenet of
A huge agnostic discipline
About attitudes behind morals.
You know this open and shut —
But take it down again / or thumb thru
The balance left over from a computer
Of pure tides. Inhabit the tidal brim
To the point you don’t have to know more yoga than
We know now — less than nothing.
12/17/20
The sun maybe
Burning you, other brilliant dislocations TBA, expected. Alternate forms go
Beyond predicates fixated on loud procedures
But in their giddy case they look into a surfeit of space..
A sumptuous, soilless bond,
Angels — a happy title..
*
Maybe it’s only words, assembly, to quote you.
They are absolute culminators, without our enzymes.
Burning you, other brilliant dislocations TBA, expected. Alternate forms go
Beyond predicates fixated on loud procedures
But in their giddy case they look into a surfeit of space..
A sumptuous, soilless bond,
Angels — a happy title..
*
Maybe it’s only words, assembly, to quote you.
They are absolute culminators, without our enzymes.
Madam poet reads her singable pieces uninflectedly,
a dissonance that plays to mock solemnity (“sing me, song”)
and tuneful reproach (“play dough of god”).
Combing through my notes there’s a world of disputes,
Churlish puffins and other problems to shatter the continuity
Of my exploding goofiness over lunch; of course I mean exploring.
There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.
a dissonance that plays to mock solemnity (“sing me, song”)
and tuneful reproach (“play dough of god”).
Combing through my notes there’s a world of disputes,
Churlish puffins and other problems to shatter the continuity
Of my exploding goofiness over lunch; of course I mean exploring.
There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.
43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Like skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, all agreements come down to earth time in dreams, darkly bright, best seen darkly directed.
The more you put on earth, you know shadows, their colorations, shades are imperfect (un)seeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when I’m looking on with you.
It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. That quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, remembering regression —
all days are nights and nights bright days. All time’s up.
Urgent, dizzy, all agreements come down to earth time in dreams, darkly bright, best seen darkly directed.
The more you put on earth, you know shadows, their colorations, shades are imperfect (un)seeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when I’m looking on with you.
It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. That quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, remembering regression —
all days are nights and nights bright days. All time’s up.
A poem is a naked circus person, the winter force
Through the green fuse to drive extra flowers —
That so?
Some say I’m a poet. Sweating,
A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —
One who understands the responsibility that emerges
Amidst roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate, the fallen blood will calm her sores.)
And I have dined under poetry’s arbors with queens and kings.
I’m numb now to tell the royals I’ve been offered wings.
Land-locked, royals are bent by the same wintry fevers
And I’ve never been that impressed.
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long-
stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.
A circus repatriated.
Through the green fuse to drive extra flowers —
That so?
Some say I’m a poet. Sweating,
A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —
One who understands the responsibility that emerges
Amidst roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate, the fallen blood will calm her sores.)
And I have dined under poetry’s arbors with queens and kings.
I’m numb now to tell the royals I’ve been offered wings.
Land-locked, royals are bent by the same wintry fevers
And I’ve never been that impressed.
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long-
stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.
A circus repatriated.
This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a Zoroaster bumblebee
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners, of historicity
are flaws like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad parka-like body.
Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners, of historicity
are flaws like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad parka-like body.
Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)