My neighbor Al Capp created L’il Abner out of vitriol and some German revenge exorcised by the French in their distantiation mode. It was after the wars sliced them in two.

The chorus is plural. It’s the end of aging, moods are out. Order in chaos. Be one with it.

I have a tiny eye on them and I’m holding to their path, rescuing no one. However soft or firm, the drills at the end of the continent put up more shelves. And now an aspect of our fiction is told on. We have no perverse incentive to be mindless of taking chances, since we talked a lot about allegory, too much, really, and too often we drank to the madness of it’s all over between numbers and how angry they get and how it makes us crazy for the late poetry of X.

Onze mouthing off to dix.

No future presents new phenomena. Pain, that’s a blood type we put on for show. You want me to reconcile the semiology for you? Type in Zigeunerliebe as the hydrangeas split, elegantly disruptive, i.e.

There is a history to our misfortune. You can’t find actuality in a void (plateau) of the crescendo, the will to splat (Zeus’s disguise).

What’s the point? tho, unless they’re in social-politics?

We can feel it, silver-blue lamé (void) but I wasn’t too sure (hydrangeas like it this way) swallowing their methods for months and years going up in ideology and any kind of style. Whatever futures is.

To aggregate is to achieve. Afterward a file will result. Then a deficiency of thought, of ideas. All the same, this is the second point.

Adorno says plain speech is a fair shake at fame.

Like the oboe in I. Got. You. Am.

We can start over in the middle but it’s really the beginning.

I’ve always been mad about the point. So the others doesn’t count. (I’ve always been secular.)

Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social paradox of violence. The rules commit us. Yet this is the worst case, damaged surplus. Let me give you a hand.

g = l. Everything I note here is integrated. These databases center on content while something sober on the ground keeps looking up. I like my fruit to get by on appearances.

I take you in to go beyond intoxication, to guard the masses.

August begins to spin. There, I know it. I’m imprisoned to reach my market.

Thank multiple histories to suspend my arms and keep your profane circumstance pushing into the room. It’s silly like when a ladybug evolves, a pretext that’s out of shape, part of a riddle, a gauge toward or for another punishing final, a jewel as it were, the trademark of both natural and technical production, meaning to be either way.

Finally, I leave for finishing school. I’m wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack is stuffed with graphs. I want more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse. Why is there no music emanating from the garden-facing rooms? The archives keepers must be so sick of themselves! I’ve been reading Cliff Notes for Le Morte d’Arthur, which I finished in one night with the help of two pitchers of martinis. Also reading Mina Loy who abandoned three kids in Italy to take up egg crate sculpting in New York. Top that Cari, Jemi, what’s-your-name. Mina-mou... which is Greek. This is my homage. I’ll have what she was having, realizing her dream performance in “Fidelio.” That’s how I found myself, without a helmet; I’m a yet hater. Well, I say. Studying the history of human height and esthetic prestige is hopeless. This one graph took me nine minutes.

So, with regard to static and its ovoid, stasis, in a compulsive battle over tv’s ultimate smiley face, it’s not just who smiled first that counts, but also wherever and however. Frown-inducing accusations have been flying in the heat — between a loose start-up of random singletons and duos representing traditional (some would say ‘mossy’ and ‘old old-hat’) friends and opportunists of desire between or among poets v. some well-organized language-auditing communities (detractors call them ‘thought-camp fellowships’) with any number of members (‘the imprisoned’) — over the defeat of stasis and triumph of happiness to supersede scandal and exploitation.

I, for one, have extreme difficulty in separating out external compulsion from the experience of desire. Nothing remains but the smell of night herbs crushed in the enormity of literature’s sneering apparatus.

The archives are at risk.

We’re on tv a lot. It’s a general condition, but hushed up. On tv I have a family resemblance / remembrance problem with some poets I encounter. This is because we’ve been brought up in visual culture. And since it’s being archived, there are poets who affect me in new ways I will never let them in on or admit to, but those ways are tied up with off-the-page and off-screen emotions that I see or project into an encounter, and, notable (notable on a paranoid scale, that is), I get it they are viewing me in similar ways. What I’ve just outlined is not déjà vu but my conjecture is these affects draw from a pool of experiences first lived within a family and through childhood, thanks to taping for later viewing by hundreds of thousands if not millions, over and over. That many hits.

First reading H.D. (in high school) set my fingers tingling (not my spine, tho). Reading Donne and breaking down how conceits interlocked parts of the argument fired something up in my brain that I experienced physically, but I don’t remember which body parts, precisely. (Again, this was high school. I bet it was pixification added to all the brainwork studying Latin and German and maybe the attendant headaches. I was more involved with Keats before college, but his poetry was dreamy concretion, to me, and I don’t think I “felt” his words so much as “saw” them and me in them. The visual over feeling. At this point, embarrassing to admit, I wanted to be an amalgam of Keats and Donne. Girl, was I anxious.) First time I felt a poem through my skin was over a quarter century ago, listening to Kenward Elmslie read for the first time. Boom boom up and down the limbic whatnot. I still feel it, watching tv.

Then you know static develops heads of steam. I’m leaving you, quitting the craft. Or I’m joining it. Someone might be intrigued. Could be when I U-hauled myself from Waban, Massachusetts to a first-floor flat, site unseen, in the so-called poets’ building on E. 12th, I recognized the blocks of 12th from 2nd Ave. to Ave. A, even though I had never gone near them before, and, again, could hardly gather how vital they would be in advance of seeing them, walking them. The neighborhood, with its packets of sunshine and surprising greenery, and that building were altogether familiar in some leaping-generations way; could be I had been here as an early 20th century immigrant or perhaps as a visitor years before that. My first night at E. 12th everything was in place as though I had been decamped for weeks or longer. Tub in the kitchen, finessed, a foyer, walled in packed bookshelves, a studio workroom off the foyer filled with files of graphics and drafts, a large emptied bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, large, no curtains, just windows and walls with decades of paint peeled and peeling. My bedroom is perfect as-is, a futon, a sprig of damp pine in a ceramic bowl, one or two books in-process. I knew the poets in the building, a few were famous, many pre-famous, so that's not a shock. It will all be familiar backdrop in a new craft.

A friend says she is leaving the craft, giving up on poetry. His is a cri de folbores of the ante-cease category that warrants oiving in gem posts compared in foor rveseve.

’Moves‘

Five years later I’m talking to a great poet, maybe for the first or second time. I’ve read her work. I’ve heard her read. I know some of her affinities, some of the poets she hangs with, her background, her stuff. None of this is quite déjà vu. It seems rational that with a little prep you can achieve more intimacy with someone you’re just trying to know. If you want. And, of course, you’re helped by the other, the other’s writing, I mean, since poetry is one splendid medium for self-introductions of a stagy, framed sort. No, what I am about to say is ...I want to put here and it’s not entirely rational ...there is almost a blushing-waif zeit-atmospheric, but certainly a range of collective empathy (psychosis?) with a potentially or partially vulnerable social manner that, together with your own empathy and vulnerability, will put you both way beyond resemblances / remembrances; you’re talking fast and can’t help rolling your eyes in the same, forward direction, even before you have an intention. Wham! This happens a lot, and because I don’t let it happen to me often with non-poets, I’ve privileged the condition, even though it’s a problem when a person of bad faith, say someone like me who’s done this a lot and has the ‘moves’ down, misapplies the moves and the language for motives beyond the immediate speech act.

dbqp squeezes more sense out of a text-context solution or co-construction. And it's nicely illustrated, as usual.

There’s the plug-in of time travel to calisthenics. If you feel like sex, be sure to wake me up.

Resonating — a prism on top of which you can point to the horizon that’s both magnified and askew. If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll be taking sides. I told them I’d prefer not to watch from the grandstand and de-harvest illusions of atmospheric slop. So I note what happens. Walking away burns more calories. Better to get a friend or two to write for you, pretending they are you, falling mute, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

I should be collaborating, writing this down.

I’m seated in my studio, dressed in ashram Goth.

Government dotted with its joke mirrored hot pants.

What are resonators for but to effect command of stuff we’re uncertain or we don’t want to get that serious about? There’s nothing but an eyeblush of material to seem a desperate measure, and it is, in reckless hands, yet for a type of silent partner like me there’s depth to surface and undespairing perceptions (like reading a dab) of what won’t be contained. If you’re the anamorphic type, you can pick a curatorial spot in the vicinity of information and be seen as well as seem on top (of it). Breathing life, we sell hundreds of these, o Swami, nothing to discredit nor disbelieve.