Tuesday, March 03, 2015
Style is a digestive structure in zoology.
Every worm is this-is-so-cool. / Every owner subject to restitution
and most tax experts evoke a cuddly dog w/ permanent values in a set of colors.. I’m here too, waiting for everyone I can’t stop waiting for.
De rigueur for now is farfetched. / Let’s consider what might outrank Zen. / Your dialogs sound libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio, some science fiction.
The practice of Zen is nothing at all, only sustained focus and innovation in nowhere equivalent to a disc. I won’t do it, nah, many thanks.
Composition and landscape, that work? .. I’ll grieve later on, turn to pen and ink for human voice breaking glass in an r v drowning out the dog track.
all right, let’s start the open air in complete command of heavenly xray vision, off here and there, progress from the sky in fugal microspores and steam as a guitar squeaks now w/ common sense, folds into dreams.
From the outside the sky has a square shape, bolted
in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for interpretation.
We’ll learn a lot all at once. Absolute
Blind tessellation, inflating while we inhale
Exhaling social meanings to information over the last half century.
Investors, scientists working together.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:33 AM
Monday, March 02, 2015
No hurry, this repeats
While not paying attention, one reads a confusional book. We are at the dawn of snow raising consciousness that one can’t get from sleet, only snow. Snow wobbles. It does. It vibrates. But something’s missing.
We’re in no hurry
Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.
There’s no good time to get sun, which is a tragedy.
Right about here we want clarity about motives, the delivery seems un/pinched.. slightly.. chance of showers, now, in a long silence we mosey back to.
Standing in rain assumes protons can be scattered. Next the sun is shining, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it but not tempted.
Some of you and me is there, and more ‘there you go’ noting, retreating to emancipating solitude, the forecast more sound oriented as translucence flushes solid ice by degrees keeping / adding up the wait time you say, sporting a panoptic sentence for the related changes you are.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:02 AM
Friday, February 27, 2015
Pleasure is to ethics as the Yellow Sea is to Taoism.
Yves Saint Laurent and Bo Diddley died on the same day. Yves first.
Some queer poets are from the other side. Of course. Ezra Pound, Ted Berrigan, Robert Creeley, Alice Notley, Clark Coolidge, Hannah Wiener, Joseph Ceravolo. Ceravolo in particular illustrates how precipitous queering can get through simple discourse. First three lines of “Warmth”:
There’s nothing to love in this
Collected something warm like friends.
There are ten more similarly short, literally breathtaking lines. If I were to find a point to the poem, it plays back some of the wrenching of amorous assault. Continuing:
Sail glooms are none.
rests like sailors in
their bunks. Have beaten you, lips.
man made keeping.
Supply it flowing out;
are brute bullets in your back
because there is
in this rice Spring.
Sense of utter loss — but not confusion — underlies the twisted (Have beaten) and dropped topic headers (Collected something, are brute). Hyper yang references (sailors, bunks, bullets) are scooped up from one segment of the sensate scale, but are motivated more by an ambivert male persona than sexual proclivity. Although severely abbreviated, Ceravolo is insisting one follow his reasoning (Supply it flowing out). That insistence is enforced by the repetition at the end, “in this rice Spring.” I’d have to choose from a number of “death trying to see and breathe” scenarios to start explaining “rice,” but I’ll leave it to an impression: Peering down one finds a bowl of warm(ed over) rice, a bleak, humdrum triggering of grief, regrets. What’s queering here is Ceravolo’s proceeding via conflation of physical acts, audacious desire (Supply me), and irreversible spectacle (because there is in this rice Spring).
Spectacle, bold desire, physicality. Three things one ought not to do without. When we find them in others, we know we are getting close to the ethos we require.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:32 AM
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
I, we meet in Niseko, north of the town offices
first on drenched tho
shaking the tidal vapor thru no shadow weighed, no
more than ten or less, seconds off the slopes
meeting above steps coincided with the light
clipped to the final base blast patching the thaw
— spirals discharge, wind heats the ground and trees open.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:24 AM
Monday, February 23, 2015
Before reaching a Bodhisattva high water
Communewide, Kung-Fu’s math disappears like factions of perplexity —
You’re asking a lot.
Spring or colder rain has a libido viewable within either construction
From a cabin for paired centrists, a flight down,
A perimeter of memory foam and asphalt whilst metamorphoses are active.
In plain verse we round this off in latinate stencils for amnesia’s fixed width.
You were fucking great, shaken tame.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:11 AM
Sunday, February 22, 2015
First noticed that word about a popular T shirt
I don’t remember — it was a while ago
(Ian banks a novel transition..)
A term hurled in frustration
I saw this used on Beckett
Derives from gnana, wisdom
Applies to Sermon on the Mount
The body knows ‘before’ the brain
This is not true of Walter Gropius
Holy Albert Hirschman, is he circular!
More influential among Northern Lights
Emily Dickinson, central bankers
Saw it on a menu
And G Hill, notorious, Hill had known
Stinker Strange-Paget, Blaise Pascal
And Nietzsche and Wittgenstein, so
US Vogue reported in conversation
On a boat about lyrics,
Wise at once.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:14 AM
Friday, February 20, 2015
The males in our family prompt a discussion that imparts nonsensical bewildering repetition of imprudence. They started long ago to induce “flipping surroundings.” Interdisciplinary terms are regulated for better and worse around an almost empty campground that remembers nothing of the nearly transparent sensory esotericists.
Bags and bags of stolen ideas prolong their standing in infinite battle with consciousness.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:49 AM
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Athens is the cradle of alpha reality
Hip, cool, ordered smooth, unruffled for the taking.
The light darkens. I hate Greece.
It’s official, we’re its colony.
Yah, #36, all time subservience.
(It’s not easy being special.)
As a classicist I plead guilty
Yaa, all the time.
Orthodox or not, Greek flames decline in pyres,
Dante’s paranoia seething with keen
Fidelity to Hera, also a 36 trying to
— we’re too relaxed to fritter time finding verb and object headers!
We’re forgiven for everything.
Let’s encounter, at my signal, elbows down.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 7:39 AM
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
The Buffalo of paradise could be Pasadena.
I died of Viagra and became a robot.
I just wrote this [The first Keesha, 14-yrs-old, accidentally applied an enema containing sea bream. But she also had Donald Sutherland’s bio on her, on her mind that is. Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.]
Back when thunder and precip were construed as tendencies plundering contexts of human asymmetry and sports psychology. There will be a new panel.
May View Ln backs up to the 210.
No more than that can be threatened during the annunciator’s silence in the sleep aisle. Fever, ague, intemperance, railroad spine, neurasthenia, the flu, the common cold, all would be otherwise, alarming.
Chit chat next.
The galvanizing process overall turns our survival into a sketch that kills where you emerge, enhancing your final four value.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:59 AM
Saturday, February 14, 2015
An abstract, glass-red attitude is buried below stem cells of laughter.
Together, thou definest entire affability arcs, unspoken though a form in many forms of slippery zoning disputes.
Body snatching, a second point, is why thou and I (I and thou?) shall join the others, since our lives are directionless throughout Middlesex County.
Good night, wallet.
And [...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what I breathe] inside, which is continually immature, impulsive...] [and]
I see the wind smudging a porch.
I’m scared. Good night to expose an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent a few exchange elements; we’re remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 9:23 AM