10/31/15


A mandate is just that. There’s señor that needs you. He has no interest in poetry; I wonder if that’s true; his thoughts knit together like mica piles, shouts ricocheting through more than 1 voicetrack, lobbing pinned acorns and underbrush until they’re scooped up holding our breath, 2, bounced, kicked and gloved by catalysts.




10/30/15


Entanglement:
Study Freud or any evolutionary researcher of the antic.

Stick with insoluble nonfiction you’ll fall into a niche in 5 days
Blindfolded. (Our guarantee.)

Such brilliant dislocations a\we\re expected; it goes
Beyond, there are dark, unknown predicates fixated on louder procedures

But in their giddy case procedures to see into a surfeit of space,
A sumptuous, soilless bond,

The angels.

*



It’s only words, assembly, to quote you.

They are real actors, not people.

10/29/15


We have no idea of here & now —

Connections lost in reality were scarifying.

And like some peers who frame their searches socially,
we learn lightly. We’ve slathered each other w/ axioms over the poor
and excluded. So there’s nothing else? I can’t tell, because I wouldn’t know.

Partnerships were constructs, 1st a little lunatic,
                 sometimes febrilly culled.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing was forbidden.
Or there’s a burst of daft tone substituting info
                 for a lifetime.
I lower your voice to approximate parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?
We have reality subtracting poetry.

*



We have no idea of here & now —

Whatever we thought about talking, making up
was a lot better than “looking pretty close” watching others spin
like “sentience” refined by distance

& that’s the gist of it —

Finalists (e.g. Tom Clark) quit general practice — work converted to industry,
little or no honor system. W/ that, I’ll drop our language, the vicarious lexicon

To conform to our belief system to get forgotten.

10/28/15




10/27/15


Your new book.

Spinoza noted sorcery and spiritual drama attract circus talent, theatrical and contextual. Spinning ponies could fill in those top spots... you apparently go through braille (touch and go) channels crossing out checks payable to visual topoi. Wild priests and magicians once ran up debts like this but later they were less focused, chasing butterflies that keep auditioning — over such whiny hills cute and cuter butterflies have butterflies, why?




10/26/15


1.

Everything I do is sin. One after another piles up.
Yet the nuclear self lingers for a year or more, that fellow (he’s a fan, even now)
we grow. “Absolutely.” Them.

2.

They’re throwbacks to un-hurting instincts, the last we inherit, recall over time.
Suddenly as told by 2 dads, 3 moms or any of us,
No one is inferior or too serious, either;
We can maneuver with the cash of inevitability around many
Gender-specific no noes! shattering them.

3.

Our love tosses in bed burnishing a logo.
Shame on the t in tear drop lamps above the island.
(Bikini Island.. w/ a handshake in the center.) We’ll yield this echelon

To nothing more authentic than having unadorned communal assent.
You’re holding me, middle of a welding
Head-of-light, until my vertebrae burn. We grow. Them.

10/25/15



Riddles are everywhere while violence underlies our pleasant lives. People who may not see this are killed daily, so we wind up w/ the visual goods we enjoy. Shaky ground. Is there any other kind? I mean, we’re all pragmatists. I mean... I think that means instead of living under the sun and the moon and seeing the pollen on the lawn, one is living in an enigmatic scheme of one’s own not-seeing, blinded by periodic breakthroughs one calls substantial. To see what else might be there, there is Geof Huth, a neo-pragmatic sustained focus but also a discursive, contentious stance taker who rakes the ground for graphical poetries, ground that’s permanently shaky. Ten years ago at [dbqp.blogspot.com/] Huth argued against that repeated, generalized call for substance and breadth in visual poetry (you might say, in all effects, poetry) — voiced by those he characterizes as new-criticism-inspired — pinpointing the unique semantic appeal that graphic-verse offers as motes of a riddle: “A visual poem might be an epic or an ode, but it is more likely to be something minimalist. And that enigmatic movement of meaning across its surface is its particular gift to esthetics.” Huth might have said that. You don’t have to subscribe to this view to find value in it as a point of contention and counter-contextualizing w/ respect to pop (albeit dated) theory (new criticism). 


Contention is fine, but Huth goes further visualizing gamuts, checking others’ work, displaying his own, amplifying, looking to see. From Huth’s posts a decade ago, we travel from his base in Schenectady to Manhattan, California and Texas. Huth discovers typographic sleight in a store sign at Bryant Park, and then ogles (correction: we readers are ogling; Huth is photographing) a graffiti-enscorched men’s room (w/ hand dryer, hand mirror, etc.) in a Midtown restaurant, an occasion to unpack a base irony — “At the door (my egress), a joke appears: Very Top Secret. But I don’t believe it. The creation of the text might be secret, but the texts themselves are quite public.” I like these pieces executed in “heavy pollen” around Caroga Lake, NY, photos of his own glyphs inscribed into microspores on auto glass and on a car’s hood, as well as one on a glass tabletop at a wilderness café, “Pollen over Glass over Fabric.”

10/24/15




Song: My neighbors have been urbanized.
Does it matter only a few minutes ago I learned to
Write above my welcome?

Copy: Drink to one’s health & bicameral madness
As sugar consumption skyrockets. O Canada

10/23/15


A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation. It’s now English. Le Smoking for driving, dressing on the left: your character lifts, lukewarm and husky. Splash.



Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, everything amazing has lowered discourse.



Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together



Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified but impressed.
                    (This siegecraft apparently works.
For my driving, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)

10/22/15


Upbeat message. We call that yeah

Parentheses to explore;

The 4-D printer’s, they have many followers, you on it?

Prigs pick up; driftwood gets epigrammatic, upsides are unrelated, pale, immaculate

As one’s eyes reset

Focus some more.
Upbeats hold snorkel like typography that can fade to
Nothing or the opposite, periodically or
Altogether for the kids, the innocents?
                                Anything to take from the a-argument
For missing stairs..

for Kenny G

Pantoum: The instant we select a rogue anime we also begin singing to ourselves,
Clio strikes commanding octaves and unreal rumors circulate.

~ To my understanding it turns out ~
Witchy rhythm is baroque-cheesy if it’s parody paying homage to the
Subject. Or object

Witch: Pass the white I think they’re gloves.

Off the rack, hey, I’ve discovered what’s scary
In some directions the focus got noticed.

— the bespoke jacketed
Sufi? At the mall that’s closing?
He’s canceled!

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 here we want clarity about motives, keep delivery un/pinched.. slightly about here.. chance of showers, now, still in a long silence we’re



Standing — rain and everything neutrinos can’t stand scattering. Next the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted.

Some of you and me was here, and more ‘there you go’ noting, retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up the wait time you say, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem to see and are.

10/21/15




Frame: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, most left unread. More: atextual sources as fodder for your text, new ontological components for thinking, composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Add your touch and all you touch, everything you see, good sounds and less humidity as you walk or sit along any surface, any pang, faculties for balance, direction, toes and feet, tastes and smells, motions, textures, feelings from everything so far. Bring that (as much as you like) to our ambient government. Government divided in two. First, liberal arts loosened from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. Second, wiry empirical jolts, ambience that comprise (sic) enmeshments within a readymade mood and control structure parallel to vocational education in poetics; appliance hint: a job with a hot plate.

10/20/15


Look me in the eye, I’m ruined.

Diagram conditions of ex sentences, touching both elbows behind your back —

Trompe l’oeil conditions I now know are approximating mock abstractions. (Once seen

You know it thru an evolutionary pin drop

Like mind and body worship, real abstraction is vicarious before conforming to a belief system.) Or is

It just an illustration?



10/19/15


Don’t be afraid.


Eh, if I could let myself go, fearless — living and bereaved like ruined plum.

You’ve never been wild about old desire, but he’ll allege you go where you have to go.

*

Bruise will stop by later.
I’ve gone werewolf. Both true to form.

10/16/15


Song: I elect to be ignorant.



All in; all for one; one for all : magical thinking. Left to its systems and devices, it’s tenure, dull intrigue and romance, equipage of the self taught. A Vulcan slice of a childhood domain like improving one’s posture. Ta ta.



Eee god my head is growing. I fool myself all of nature repairs to a cryonics lab that’s been reopened. Just for a second.

I believe in highlights and the mimicking hidden force of gravity. You guys go ahead.



I’m going to walk away, that’s the best stunt.

Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”



To throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy — I’ll never feel his arms around me again. Never feel the air on my skin, or wake up in his warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I can’t do any better than what I’ve done.

“Absolutely,” visiting professor I don’t know her last name will reply, if asked.

10/15/15


I was never angry. Visually, I bought my first balance ledger. But I learned a lesson.

There was no progress.

Before that Japanese syntax was molded apart. Molded like sister & brother drummers / saxophonists playing to a safety council, tidying memories up with inexact tempo backbeats multiplying from what they did before better pieces from a notebook took hold.



There’s to party.

There’s always looking out, up and through silence & a sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men and women are resigned

wherein smirks press on — drizzle would hurt if verbal but not visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.

10/14/15





Credo: You’re good doing this. Just
Report to command centers for the new pricing, lest
Theft is looking better. Go. Fees balanced


After.. there are vector
Utilities (direct flares) for expressing enzymes with lips.

Hessian perfume like axioms —

You’ve already eaten.. had a bite. Of some.

Turn coincidence into wailer muscle parrying
You to hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

10/13/15





I wrote this 15 minutes ago.
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.

10/12/15


Pantoum: The future of party killers resides in jail
(given a key, you lose it);

— shifting attention but staying in touch

I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks,
I draw a blank on Havana interiors and decades of Tonkas

[...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what we breathe] below, which is
Immature, impulsive...] [as above]

— I forget empirical relationships, the visual force of
                    a “mottled taxonomy,”

Complaints and sworn declarations,
I forget meeting you.

10/11/15




His haiku was stiff: full, bel canto, with a slight

Vocal member of the Illinois cultural

Studies group carrying a sawed off

Shotgun.

10/10/15


Rhode Island’s motto has hope, implicative of passivity discharged by shore conditions, handsome, calm, also a bit on nerve.



Talking it over maximizes signals.
That’s why poetry is the preferred medium.

10/9/15


I’m a member of the takeaway school.
Mean something and take it away.
Fawning v welfare. Belated as a pledge.







                                g

10/8/15


Response: Captain, can I bare your hooligan credentials?



Captain scientist, see what we’ve done? See what you can do! throw us in a hole and keep me there, cover me up. Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was speaking to the best interest of the corp. Eh, same time, I’m afraid I can’t keep working with you looking over my shoulder.

I hope I’ve been clear.

10/7/15



Talk is politically cheap. I guesS
...what? on the edge o’ song



When you got up your voice was

Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling
Flat into dust in 4 dimensional motes.

Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,
Dust controls anger / how minds are wed.

10/6/15


To paraphrase ... you cant predict
How or even what youll be taking from your background;
there are too many of you.




10/5/15





Old ideas are out. Cal Tech outsmarts Harvard. Colgate is a better ‘deal’ than either. Tod’s loafer beats Weejuns. Sure.

MoMA in the original shifted genealogy, different periods of shifts changing contexts for us; we were both wearing black Lacoste.

10/4/15







Hotter. Sandier.

— Wetter.
Saltier.

I noticed her too. The earnest one in the PhD scarf, ‘I am very, very anxious and trying to do all I can to eat at the truth.’



I think we’re avoiding intimacy. My other therapist says...
“You know the rules. Get rid of her, Mr Fuzzy is yours.”

10/2/15


Some standards.

Shined asides.

We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,
Really a vase,

Set it, let sunset pitch in its foam, declare
Poetry goes thru many drafts.




10/1/15




Writers are still proletarian at the start; each a lone entity in a world dominated by luxury groups.

Conflicted about big money, I’ll pick up anything. I read corporate art management aims to commandeer the pipeline, production to sales. As is fairly obvious when you look at other creative industries, film, tv, music, as marketing small press poetry, poetics, art books integrates with managerial acumen, a chunk of creative taste and decision making stands ready to fall under the control of entrepreneurial influence, NEA, Poetry, Poetry Foundation, down to every slick body.

Parable: All my spam is luxury.

Parable’s silver brown hair is replacing blonde, according to a flier.

I picked up in the same flier that my soul is a hypothesis. A fish out of water surfing coastal states to destroy his wiggly self. Since we live in new enterprises and ecologies, we begged him to learn to swim further and stick with a nearly sublime topic, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding a spray of looking glass.