I'd like to lighten what's complex by replacing poetry with glass and silence, a kind of stripping down to the ashen stem cells of relatively unspeaking. I'm a busybody but not an impossible mime that pedals on some obscure brand of bike. Hail, love, I'm in hell with you. I still try to stay positive in the free zone, swallowing hard. I'm definitely into art. The problem with engineered simplicity, both as an affectation and requirement, is you have to give aclinic lines to what annoys other people, and what others think passive-aggressive. Internal "gears" relegate the nauseous effects to personal advantage, which you waive anyway, as if / as though privileged opposition were some huge treasure for anyone else with a computer. This is my own Satangate segment. I know you see this. Why drive to your new place where they cook something for you, spend time at what could be your last lunch, pour coke over the glass table, because you won't live to feel the buzz, watching the clock in whiteface?

Quatre Options translated from "12 French prostitutes' terms"

Nice, nice hello from a passive, bronzed, pulsating 1m81, 69 kilogr, and under your condition I'm sure we'll be well on. Seeking that soulmate who has the means for giving me pleasure and if so, I'll recip without limits. I open up in Esperanto and am thus ready for your proposed fantasms! I'm dreaming of kissing you down there since I am a pro without pouring it on too much (ok I'm pretty terrific at it, maybe better than pretty, even). Make me your protégé of the hour, purrrr!

~~

Body pawn, beefy convex bottom, enduring. Into experiment, good presentation, conversation, trés available and mobile, open to your whims... I cannot receive and plan only on bets, tho. Can you describe yourself? A photograph? What research are you waiting for? In what corner? Hit me up. I am, in my briefs, a young beardless pushover with a fresh core for you, señor. Kissing upon agreement. I'm looking for just about anyone who's rather active or somewhat passive wanting benefit from me. I am plûtot studly, sympathetic, and cultivated. I love simple folk, those who are into the cool moment. I like sex but it's -- you guys! -- relational. I aspire that this small promo help you love my personal quirks and hot points, too. Hesitate not!

~~

Whoa -- please -- take my foot!!!

Youth here, I have provisions for spending a good time when we'll play a little more...

Make a toy out of my ball. I adore that!!! SM, no.

~~

Hi. Everything seems toweled or wrapped up in a caftan, to me, but am available. I'm a surfer of 21 years, and I measure 1m77, 60 kg, black eyes, brown-to-blond hair, whate'er ..... I am your beach bum and servant and as you can see am no longer toweled (if I were you would not have discovered this profile, dude). I am yours, slut, bud, at your slurpy service as you wish. Also, you can see my tariffs (1000 flowers, 24h) and my coordinates, body defined, buzzed hair. Come to me for more precision. Business is everything! I'll be there to accompany you at like a dinner, an exit from the theatre or for -- wink, wink...

New Beckett.

Simiculated Laureate

I am not gay, and I have never been gay.

R.I.P. Mary Rising Higgins.

This links to our brief conversation, Feb. 28 and March 9, 2003 (appearing in reverse order, blogspot-style).

Alberto Gonzales has lived the American dream.

I need a volume exec.

mtvU Poet Laureate

New uses are innovations. Topless rubberneck.

Overwriting Text by the Laureate

Listen, I'm a poet. Everything about holding capital is a fantasy racket, for me, and abstraction like a pas de deux coming apart, our working on pieces of tracing paper in a ballet factory.

Coffers of the deep.

'I'm home,' I say to the ATM in the lobby, take the cash, push a button to the roof to sit on a barstool overlooking the time is money plaza level. At this hour the brasseries are closed long and hard. Can we turn to steel? One hears a fire represented in the distance where metal breaks, but not the cries for help, just songs of victory rebuilding the world, growing deeper, duller at the sight of children going in this direction, leaping out of windows with startling humility, with their hair on fire.

Diving into Jesse Crockett's http://listenlight.net I discover there will be a "full equinox" this September 23. Sounds pleasurabe. Maybe we need to start counting down, only 30 days till the full equinox! [Learned of this from http://www.turntablebluelight.com/ -- one of Jesse's outlinks.]

~~

Hey duh. Make that "fall equinox." Stop counting. Nothing big will happen, just the usual minvan swirvage unto death. What would a full equinox bring to the table, anyway, better sex?

Mexican French

Bees and hayfever have nasal accents. IMs from cocoa keep us buds afloat. As if small moss, winging it. There's nothing less to break a nose. You add part of Radio WADO. A world of yo, bitch lights, photon torpedoes.

British blogger Chris Goode proposes a collaboration:

I want to make an imaginary video piece. This will take the form of a multiple-authored text which reads as a script / storyboard / synopsis for a video that will never be realized --

Further details in the right panel at DC's.

Earlier, blogger.com was directing me to a page with this message, bX-pumzzs. A sort of incantation for scattering sperm.

Your comfort is a business.

Simply put.

War over there, peace at home.

I like the color green very much. Especially its movement within trapezoids. I'm a 38-year-old male Capricorn located in overview of the coast where pointless attitudes are silenced. To stay fallible, I have interests: unique investments, investors, ironic poems and their poets (natch), C.E.O.s on motorbikes, lawyer-gardeners and harvesters of weed, covert behaviorists in politics and technology, counselors who hire and fire while preparing foods with vino invocators, humane conditions.

Hooded, I show you techniques made of my personality and franchisees that issue. Granted, issue is a verb tied to numbing esthetics, the franchise a kind of spiritual waterboarding that will never cease. Each incrimination on the green feels like an unhinged event, the early backstory lowering disputants of the human cry cast up, their mail sorted by workers, vibrating at street level, positioning their decisions on a chain as absolute freedom re-hires the one people handling pit managers who created lackey overflow. One people. Nearly impossible. Perfect!

Many investors will pledge boundless love. This is a famous university.

As the genealogies of specialists fill up, thickening stripes across the knolls, research parks, used cars, and internet, a lull in motives occurs in physical evidence, everyone's leverage sturdy but preheated as so many honey bees are dying faster and more so they need not raise a voice, the warmer air stranded to let them pass.

I'm the underdog here, not equipped to understand what matters. I'm emotionally maligned, an amalgam like channels of normality, sleep, hope, nimbus-wet telepathy that bears repeating.

You be the C.E.O. I'm stuck in the office.

Amusement & poetry.

I remember [Joe Ceravolo] reading at a Wm. carlos Williams festival in rutherford. Daniel Halpern had the audience in stitches laughing at his numerous references to suburban lawn care products. Joe followed and actually read each of his poems twice "so you can better understand them" he said -- he could have read each 10 times as the audience seemed totally tuned out.

-- Joel Lewis, Poetics, Aug. 18

Fingernail swizzle. Tough. Pix for reply.

We're tired of dead fantasia, planet loss, Appalachian sputtering, dull satire. Also, time draining portrayed as company oozed of amiable outwitted foes.

I'll wait then 'til after the christening and take on the mad stunt driver, as I find much that is interesting about unzipping in wet opium, in a series of mind battles, slippery, with ill-defined possible noise. The flabbergasted good mutt takes what you're wearing on the floor, open to anyone like.

Data swirls around Simpson Brook (a
Evidence-based rivalries
St-amping feet reverberating t* hr u
Th e l a c** e *y hy st er ia

Reaching out a trembling hand, Jesus, I had to laugh:
T h.i's g_e*m is re-ally m ova_ble!!
T,h,i-s o+n*e is reall+y profitab*le,!!! (a

Come on, sir knave, have done
H.a+v+e y*o-u b,e e,n wa, tching t_h-i s f,o r t+h*e
L'a.s t w,e e,k-? (a

Rationalist native
H*a-s a j-o, b A-
To do

T_a+k.e a l_o.o k :
Are u fit for t he s ce n* ar i+o?
Re*cent rele a,ses ge_nera'ting g*rowing un res*t in A,
Sou*n=d o r*ie –nt *ed,landfill.

If you read only one post today, make it this one.

The vulnerable and maligned ones were not held enough as children like a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own animation without male heirs. They're wearing synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, writing over in a beam from plundering the transport of their ambience. It's their fault. Simple stuff picking up a pen.

Is there anything left to lie about?

Thanks for not mentioning me.

When three or more pray in exile, the spectacle is miniaturized.

There's the hugest irony in Ashbery saying we're directionless, below. And the exaggeration is, among other things, self-mockery. But his resistance to gangs is, you know, ongoing, because whatever else gangs do for you, they always, irretrievably let down their cool.

Nude Middlebrow Descending a Staircase: We feel in America that we have to join something, that our lives are directionless unless we are a part of a group, a clan... -- John Ashbery [cited by Epstein and by Latta]

R.I.P., Elizabeth Murray.

B.K.S. reflects (posted 8/10) on digital artist Jeremy Blake who committed suicide last month.

Bombs is not enough.

Having read En poésie comme en musique, il s’agit de savoir bien placer les fausses notes... here, I found this immediately following, Comment, a felicitous bilingual invitation both to dialogue and answer the perpetually reigning question, how so?

Nobody's asked me but Ron's paragraphs over the last few days on Ashbery, focused on Three Poems, are some of the best blogging of the year.

And the last quality is the poet will mention his own name, her own name, in the last stanza.

I knew Hafez put his name in every ghazal, but I didn't know that this was a prerequisite of the form.

Rumi does it (in his ghazals), too. This was a poetry that wasn't published, you see. It was memorized. So the only way you could tell who had written it is by the name at the end. So that's just enforced on them so to speak, by the situation. -- Robert Bucholtz & Robert Bly, American Statesman

What kind of animals are we? What dolts, this Hafez and that Rumi? Bucholtz and Bly? I think putting their name in a little beast, even if it has fur along with fangs and eats dirt and sludge, be it a ghazal, a pet, or whatever, and making it remember must be a sacrilege and a desparkler. It's driving me nuts. Something flows through my body. The chairs start to talk. Even if a poet has a foreign sounding name related to a violinist that doesn't excuse the nonintegrity. Opening and closing its mouth again and again is abuse and a disgusting scene, especially forcing the ghazal to speak names 'enforced at the end' in the ground. Even ghazals just like kittens have abandoned dreams. I was wondering what damage comes next. A mouse and turtles or a beautiful leaping ghazal don't have intelligence to save them, 'so to speak,' smooth-talked into submission, nose down in the mud and sexual collapse. Bly has no opinion, generically wild. His thinking like his name is flat, functional, a 'situation,' a journey to easy fast sex. Quaint and all but Bly is digging himself a deeper hole into a row of translucence flushed downhill, shaming the rest of the force for good in poetry.

Looks as though a piece of old technology could rescue poets afflicted by the new. Experience has shown that even a few short discussions with a verse professional can help a problem poet, one who suffers from web overload, obsessing over one's or another's blog comment boxes, for instance, or subscribing and submitting posts to too many e-lists. But sometimes poets who could benefit from talking to professionals are unable to come in or reluctant to do so.

Maybe they do not have to, says a new study that found that counseling by the handy old telephone could be effective in curbing addiction to the blazing web.

In a study that might shed light on how to resolve difficulties with monopolizing comment boxes at poetics blogs, researchers suggest phone counseling could be good for web addicts and poets who are "hard-to-reach," literally and figuratively. "You know, if a poet feels isolated living in California or New York or some such off-the-beaten lyrical path, all he had before were those cold-blooded e-lists and comment boxes. Could be all he needs now is to pick up the phone and bawl like a chihuahua pup to a verse professional," said Tom Raworth, one of the control executives and authors of the study. Phone counseling also uses fewer resources than face-to-face meetings.

“Telephone counseling for poetic problems,” Raworth writes, “could help overcome barriers that often hinder access to conventional verse treatment such as stigma, transportation, caesura and scheduling conflicts.”

The researchers screened poets in waiting rooms at 18 Boulder, CO clinics and contacted those who appeared to have a possible poetry problem. "Boulder is another one of those fallen-off places all across the globe where it's a pleasure to take pictures with your phone cam, but there are no readings, and poets feel awful lonesome," Raworth said. In all, the team worked with almost ten poets, half of whom were given just pamphlets about how to write better and the remainder receiving counseling.

The program seemed to work better for men, especially poets holed up in man caves, than for women who were primary care givers in households earning less than $5,000. The men reported an overall decline in web addiction of 17 percent, the women one percent.

The researchers said they were surprised at how readily many poets agreed to the counseling, which involved trading cable modems for dial-up and speaking to counselors without recourse to delete buttons.

We know time is precious. Colors fade. More so now. Who has the freedom to flag something down and read about it? Not to mention how long it takes to scratch out a review. So, I've noted a trend among readers and writers in the review biz, and I'm jumping in. The definitive one-liner, deployed in conversational discourse, mostly to praise.

No one writes like Y -- he's wonderful.

A miracle.

This book is awesome, period.

I connect with Z, she's a god.

I'm totally cool with X; she's great; she's a lyrical polygamist.

Endless variations of these, along with a hands-on option.

I couldn't put X down, my palms are sweaty, that's how brilliant he is.

My fingertips tingle just thinking of Z's stone on a rope.

Both my hands are shaking; hiss after hiss, my entire being pulsates reading Y; I envy Y for fucking me up.

I ran out of fingers (and thumbs!) rating this volume ... it's a 10-er.

Numbers are good shorthand for thinking. Just be sure they add up to ten.

In my humble opinion I basically rate "Patriarchy" very favorable, 10.

Off the scale, 10 or more (if I could heh).

Like Arabella, ten isn't high enough.

No lacunae needed, Z's asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop its chaffron and crinet, maximally tall, looking down over her sprawling, immersive, dark and smoky project-for-good, 10.

Once a year when there's a 13th moon you can go negative.

Before Y began to write she should have showered.

X shows the relationship between trucks and garbage.

Maniacal with a hidden agenda and a bouquet, not exactly fresh, of synthetic nothings, still, I'm impressed by Z's weight loss.

It's hard to peg Rilke's poetry -- somewhere between a 2 and 3.

Been a while since a royal put herself in the same league as poets. Her highness, clairvoyant and psychotherapist Martha Louise, princess of Norway, reads others' feelings and claims familiarity with cherubim, and for £6,000 she will train you to do the same. She talks to angels, connecting on a “deeper level with animals" and "forces that surround us."

I just thought I don't know what I thought.

Comments at a number of blogs are particularly productive. For sustained poetics discussion, this recent set at R.S.'s stands out.

Hobbit, pack it up.

If you still need it, unassailable evidence this morning of how media and hysteria join at the hip in our sudden collective fear of bridges. And the conditioned wailing about infrastructure. Three days ago you could have scoured hundreds of newspapers and channels and never found the word.

I have a sentence for everything. This is a transition.

With the descendent of Simics designated laureate, the fed's conspiracy is plain as The New Yorker's taste for poetry. First a fun guy. Next a sad sack. After that a fun sad sack. All the time leveraging the white guy factor. We're going to have a woman appointed once or twice in a decade; they'll throw in a person of color or two, bless them. But it will be guys most of the way, fun, sad sack, fun sad sack, down.

I have a great deal of compassion for canticles and what we have done to them.

My car gives me the crabs.

A few weeks ago poet and critic Peter Schjeldahl extolled Yale Art School dean Tony Smith's directorship of the Venice Biennale, finding Smith the "most anti-academic of academics." The pedagogic basis of such a claim, according to Schjeldahl, is that in his teaching Smith opposes "rationalist theoretical tendencies in criticism," preferring to dwell on "the artist's initiative and the viewer's intuition." Some friends of mine see this as old-beret mumbo-jumbo. One complains that intuition and initiative are unmeasurable abstractions. Another sees the atheoretical posture a classic New York School stand-off, a kind of defensive elitism to circumvent the vulgarity of a priori affects and process analysis. First, while I'll turn to theory to perfect a technical argument, I confess strong advocacy for analyzing an artist's, a poet's "initiative" when by the term we mean to understand her idiosyncratic absorption of influences, including theoretical constructs, of course, along with distinctive features of her practice. Second, I especially appreciate Schjeldahl's pinpointing intuition as the key exchange element between artist and viewer, poet and listener / reader. Evasive as it is, intuition becomes the sine qua non for influential reading, much less reader response. In this regard, contrasts of planning and chance become quanta of exchange between writer and reader. According to classic reader response theory, expectations funded by a reader's experiences contribute to an initial schema for intake. The plan is set in place. The text, if poetry, changes everything if the reader is ready for chance. The text operates as a spatial dimension for irreversible transport, influencing future planning, giving chance agency position for change.