What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority
Most rainbows taste like shit, but we like shit.
Art is theft all right.

Decent and gifted, we were raised in a crèche of decadence. Sounds preposterous. Cabs were scarce at that hour. A shoulder hitched higher to the rest of language, human debt, infants, animals in cages, all muggy places on the moon. A twice quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in sparrows, off to war everywhere but not here, a cogent ho, an earlier freer hum in a wash of other sounds and schematic petals and stems, where the mammoth goes after he drops a thread.

Ever since I was bullied as a kid.


Bullied into autocracy
Hell is too big to fail.

Fire the lilies in the field.

This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.
The ousted president drops to his knees.
Lament: Corgi spinning in washing machine, a fox

Terrier in FinnAir plane w/box cutter —

My Collie keeps searching for frozen yellow bones — how

This set, like all good waymarks, tells a story but what does that mean?
Especially when your Saluki is holding pinking sheers in her mouth

— not that there are pitfalls, our noting a few takes we could route,
Time, the weather can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into a few lines,
And so fewer syllables than forks in our paths to count now.

Corgi w/bobbing head in fish tank...


This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over a heartthrob, not to be a Lebowski.

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.
As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone goes for merciless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone as I look away — The earth is not the earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.

Burroughs’s Junky is a source of the Flintstones.
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours. Nothing month. To on.
The combing and suffix opal phrase
The whole simply. Save early ea.
Bike sale: Burroughs tries to jump over bikes.


Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled.
Thus, Chickee is a guy.
In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what others say,

but a few lies are shiny architecture of real matter. 

As if Rawls informs me on plural paths, where the tolls are o, etc

Truly bathetic. Forgetting what you have to say has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

procedures again, only this time writ extremely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how inarticulate and superficial to use him this way. I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, questions how these may apply to our history now ...


We can demolish only one artificiality.
It’s no toy. It’s an example of us.
It doesn’t love you or me. It loves what we do.
It’s a learner, not a real lover. We intervene only once.
Remember, all our troubles disappear.
You’re almost naked. You’re my business.
There’s no description, the lion took the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name.

Then he had an idea.
There’s a description he kept inside.
I notice I haven’t said anything.
Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

— The world becoming flat and falling across

The telling (of)

(Instances of)

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic

Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from

Rain ceilings (of)

The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),

It is (falling) across

Morton Feldman.
We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.


Haste is the suave part of RSVP;
Earth is spanked all over

for love — now on the mouth.


I’ll keep this in mind.
I’m no judge of character. I just shoot.
Have a Bud on a cul de sac with a dead end
feeling my rage is countrywide..

Holy moly, produce and a way to pay for it!
there’s strength in staring at a bug zapper, attracted
to light, staying competitive.

I treat our sect thermos as a norm to trade
finding order amid play divisions and muscle octads dealing /
glinting with hamminess.

The ideal Cupid fell out of place in a man’s body

but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.


When you read this, it appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.
We were informed on your discretion in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with a couple of new features and a few we move in any direction.
Not you.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom defriend us!
But this interests me only so far. More curious, is why we approach poetry primarily in terms of understanding it.
As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.
Pierre Bourdieu throws a projectile: “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of
capital distribution are stopgaps like one’s personal butt fear or discount cosmetics while

subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get subsumed by bigger ideas.
Formidable! like that whack job in Vegas.”

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hears evening if
it’s a voice in his head. “We gain knowledge from our shortcomings as well
as insights.” Well, ah! The shortcoming between truth telling here
while checks-and-balances heterodoxology is nasally inspissated thru fear.


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.
The firm handshakes.

A lien here bore the joke
Of sold summits in your loyalty

To rearm the temple — for a recruiting film —
That protex your posse

Poof! or more patchwork forms their glare-to-daze;
Keeps them

A total mishmash of untimely and vague
Yet it’s
Their indebtedness along with its prosaic point that stinks...

... but by the bed I share them with you
To wipe out parts, clean up what’s not there,

Do what I wear red for.
Danses Avant Le Mur.
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.

Nine Immaterial Nocturnes, Tony Towle. Immaterial is one of those two-headed terms, conveying qualities of the insubstantial and — hey! — metaphysical. A whiff of eerie in a self-putdown, I guess. Towle’s adoption of the term is a quiz for me in that his accomplishment is neither incorporeal nor slight, unless we consider a run of nine one-page poems slight. This is not the case with Towle, I maintain, since whether in long or shorter pieces no other poet better spoofs yearning for self-engrandizement of the individual as creator, nor more envelops his readers within the self-searching generation entailed in composition “‘...you can sweep easily through the words / of a talented writer,’ the critic said / but not of me alas.” This is Towle speaking to the occasion of something like this very one-paragraph survey, perhaps, “...nobody’s poetry is any good / until someone in prose says it is.” Towle’s luck is early on to be welcomed (personally as well as in praiseful prose) into the second generation of the New York School under the nurturing auspices of Frank O’Hara, only to live through the subsequent atomization of the scene after O’Hara’s death, to witness the metamorphosis of the craft from one of avocation to career path. There is, doubtless, a

cartoonist gesturing that smooths over such a shift in aesthetic temperament, imaging himself decades after his entry into poetry among the old-timer “cactuses...keeping our spines straight out all night...an effort well worth it.” The effort is a countermeasure to the careless as “we force wit, / laughter and subtlety to carry gloom, / lamentation and humorlessness on their shoulders.” Towle continues to play historian and geographer in his references (“I pick up a copy of Medieval Ways to Have Fun”; after putting back “What Brooklyn Means to Me”; in the poem “Hudson and Worth” we are informed one of these is “the former Anthony Street”). His metaphoric digressions are erudite audacities (“Catherine the Great draws even closer, / her Russo-Teutonic bosom heaving...the empress is coming to resemble / Margaret Dumont..."). Towle’s game is tableau completion, nine tableaux here, each incorporating social commentary that adds texture to the view, as in “Le Voyage.” This is a 13-liner that manages to capture moments when the I is composing and planning a visit to France while walking “in fashionable Tribeca” airing, evidently in English and French, “topics of internalized interest.” The poem recognizes “voices have informed me” and “Every little breeze / takes on import” especially since this is “Hurricane Awareness Week” (though, in another voice of droll recognition, this is just another start to “Real Estate Avarice Month”). In closing lines, Towle’s self-conscious determination and hilarity resolve the prospect, a stunning rendition of poet in action: “I walk down the street, / ... the passersby assume I am on an unseen cell phone, / a bilingual conference call of schizophrenic significance.” An immaterial self-putdown, precisely so.

— 2007
A poet’s prose nails her reputation time and again. Eliz. Bishop, Jas. Schuyler, Edw. Denby, to speak of the dead. Are we examining a ‘real’ voice, or are we merely more at home with the subject-verb-object flow of normalized speech? When Gert. Stein adopted plainer or more standard prose for Autobiography she became a pop sensation: “she took Alice’s voice, her acerbic, lucid style, her declarative sentences, malicious asides, quirky jokes and regular punctuation” (Diana Souhami). Is that it? we can more readily stay with sentences even when they’re overstuffed with personality so long as they are conventional, making sense, well punctuated?


I need antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose.
Four husbands.
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).

Jousting snacks.
New verbs like ave, firebug, Stradivari.
For some Aztecs sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisive — A thousand and one friends back in the city in a little boil .. polka boats like dots.
This is a loose translation, drawing on elements of your life. You planted yourself here.
How was it to record the soundtrack for an unscripted movie? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with lots of different data trees leading to nebulous, chaotic deculturalization?
An emanation is a specter brought up a peg. Just to clear things up for us, you.
I’ve moved.

I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.
A few strings were pulled to get me in this new factual place I would never have chosen.

I’m here
maintaining a competitive smile for a maxillary edge you own only if you go a little overboard.

 I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks that, only maybe
— maybe I’ve got a thought altering ‘mentalist’ landscapist up my sleeve.

Mwah.. One has a roundish face, green eyes and a slender
but blunt nose that hardens his otherwise sad, unrecognizable features / the sadness of phantoms.

“When I read about them I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I didn’t know I could write like them
before I met you.”

Speaking as a child of professors I miss this subject. Every relationship has ups and downs.
It’s not what you bring I guess. It’s what you take away.


Cunt-Ups, Dodie Bellamy, Tender Buttons, 2001. Collaging is not all that rueful — and these days with super graphics editors and shouting heads to punch up rib-breaking pastiche, anyone can start a number-one news subchannel, as Roger (“fuck your brain”) Ailes knows. The brownshirts in fact enjoy total command of their cool technologies. Anyhow, Dodie Bellamy is a very leftist collagist who sensitizes us to the global network of sex, which by most accounts, including hers especially, is expanding. In twenty-one short prose patches Bellamy loads her own mesh of radical élan, pill-popping, skull-squeezing, ass-hammering and, above all, totally fucking shrieking. In possession of both steaming female and thirsty male parts is a normalized condition under the influence of hermaphroditic frisson, a physics for grown-up sexuality and generative interchange connected to a writer’s insight: “I’m touching the page you wrote, I’m tracing your come-font...”; “I’m still planning to fuck and speak in a public place.” The cut-ups of ideas all together impress one as persuasive argument for a better sex trade for — you know — better living.

— 2004
An open question. What criteria do you
adopt in choosing poems and books of poems to read?

Give me a textual praxis as if from a mansion gone wild.
Admittedly, wild is a black hole.