Monday, June 30, 2003
The portraits from 2002 are different from the earlier ones. Coplans claims they're connected to the horror he witnessed from his Bowery studio, the destruction of the Twin Towers. I have too many notes stuck to my hard drive that may not stand for some aesthetically, historically. It's not admirable to discredit what's been accomplished merely on the basis of its being subsumed into alternative categories. You're never wrong about writing it down, anyway. You're saying I should write from scratch, no notes, no legal pad. His legs in 1994 were hairy and seductive, printed from Polaroid b/w film. In 2002: Still Polaroids, but penciled veins, firm butt, shaved legs. They're saying more soon.
posted byJack 12:11 PM
I'm in a different kind of mood. Not a prose writing mood and not a poetry mood, either. More like a telephone mood, calling you, agreeing, or maybe a sit-down looking, talking and nodding with you. Then you said I should write this down, which changes the mood.
Went downstairs to pick up the porn listings. After a few minutes, I'm back here. No relief there. Finished glancing through pages of new photos of John Coplans's body in Art in America. I can't study these 'exposures' from 2002 and 1994 for long; they're cropped black and white constructions of aging male flesh against a roll of white backdrop paper. They're thought out, sketched first on yellow legal pad, and shot by his assistant Bradford Robotham. Coplans began this 'self-portraiture' in 1984 when he was 64. So now in his eighties he's been really going for it. The underbelly sagging and dark fingers closed.
posted byJack 6:56 AM
Friday, June 27, 2003
They call themselves dignitas.
Something as infant as love.
How can the contexts not be weird? (The opposite of a norm.)
By the way.
Not to pun, not to rhyme, if you're satisfied with nominals (head sail) and hysteretic verb phrases, go for it. Nominalization is to libido as wasabi to panocha.
Choose to enter and still retain yours.
posted byJack 5:33 AM
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
Untitled Exchange
The players: Enprisa; Boy Harold; Mr Excess
Boy Harold: Sad, the reflection returns.
Enprisa: Happy I'm working on it.
Boy Harold: No, it's not our way. In a different reality we're…
Enprisa: [interrupts] His fiancée is in the chapel now.
Mr Excess: A message was dispatched tweaking the rule of silence…
Enprisa: [interrupts, again] Death and more death
This is the hardest substance
Known to our science…
Mr Excess: [interrupts] Do you want a galactic theoryhead on your conscience?
Enprisa: Just leave me alone.
Boy Harold: [excitedly] There's something visual ahead…
Enprisa: [interrupts] Perhaps, but my vision prevails.
posted byJack 7:04 AM
And Poetry is not words.
-- June 21
posted byJack 5:54 AM
If you wish to know an era, study its most lucid nightmares.
posted byJack 5:28 AM
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
I'm getting wicked stiff with rivera carmen all over again in KIMBALL family qualifies.
Also, that next episode of Abigail Adams is really hot in You blocked my MSN.
And incredibly there's a rerun of Jeffrey N. Butler in Do you think it'll work?
Plus the second round of Alex Wright in Be the first.
And here's Casey Tate again in Jk Have a debt free life.
As well as, o fucking joy, Kimberly Wilson in You blocked my IM!
I'd like to whack off newcomer Brianna Nelson in The page isnt opening.
And, shit, here's the dumb but voluptuous Melissa Murphy in Fwd: The 24th of this month.
Everyone of the Kimballs is frigging looking forward to VINCENT SARRO in Lowest RateIn History 4.42%!
Please don't miss the naked BPhosting@hotmail.co... in Bullet Proof web hosting ... Free Trial...
This sounds familiar but she's really steamy, Isabella Howard in Cant believe i found it.
Back by popular demand, Shelley Lum in you can register here..............check this...
He who opportunes, Seth P. Roberts, in I want to see you again.
Ditto for Patrick Herron in RE: dear friend.
How about that Brian Rogers in Thats what i found out.
Watch out for that new hunk of smooth sex, Carson Henderson, in Latest review is available.
Can't wait to dick pamela williams in JACK, Bulk MortgageRates Available in CAMBRID...
I'm so excited over sylvialyf@regards.ne... in are you naughty or nice? bedroom secret revea...
I'm already rock-hard for Emma S. Sanders in Technical problems.
Randall G Reeves gives me a chill in By the way... Your welcome!
Ambidexterous Cheyenne Howard fills me with sinful desire in Please dont be angry.
Similarly, I don't know if I'm AC or DC with Haley Adams in Lets meet up again.
How did she know? Hannah Hall in Did you lose it?
I'm ready to rim Chris Stalzer in JACK Avoid Late Fees and Penalties on your Ch...
Point this guy to his blog for Petie's sakes, Patrick Herron in more fucking rap (pick a n...
I'd like to French kiss eTechWarehouse in Logitech Blowout!!
Look, I'm just going to finger Francisca H. Madden till she's bone dry in Size does matter ...
Not to be left out, there's Patrick Herron in RE: dear friend.
And, no, can't be, Patrick Herron in RE: ZARZ mod from Kenji Si...
Finally, my old fuck buddy, e-Flux, in At Your Own Risk, Schirn Kunsthalle Frankfurt.
posted byJack 5:24 PM
Wow! My day just keeps expanding.
Seth P. Roberts in "I want to see you again"
rivera carmen in "KIMBALL family qualifies to receive the lowes..."
Abigail Adams in "You blocked my MSN"
Jeffrey N. Butler in "Do you think it'll work?"
Mail Delivery Subsys... in "Returned mail: see transcript for details"
Alex Wright in "Be the first"
Casey Tate in "Jk Have a debt free life ..."
Kimberly Wilson in "You blocked my IM!"
posted byJack 9:48 AM
Just today Jim Turpin writes, "you need to renew your internet name…"
e-Flux posts a few thoughts about an "Informal Urban Culture, International Symposium."
Terminate your DEBT reaches me with this: "Lower blood pressure and improve cholesterol."
Terminate writes a second time: "Increase energy and cardiac output nhwf."
Alan Sondheim pings in with "Hot Springs Thermophilic B…"
Joel M. Gentry has something to say about "Generic Viagra."
pop3.hpnc.com alerts, "This is Your best Chance."
wagapa@lawyer.com shouts "JK! WeLcOme to the freaKIEst show on Earth!"
Martha Morton forwards "no embarrassing dr. visits y so c diswv."
August Highland posts "chronic enigma #001."
Selley Lum asks, "Please read if you have a domain name to rene…"
August again, with "irreversible dissociation…"
Autumn Meyer forwards "John sent this to me."
Nicholas Baker advises me on "Temporary problems."
Mail Adminstrator says there's a "Mail System Error – Returned Mail."
Savannah Powell chimes in, "Why wouldn't you just give it to me."
Jasmine Cole admits, "Been searching long for you."
This is from Alan S, again, "I'm playing oboe."
Still, Kelsey Graham asserts, "Too many to count!"
Paul King screeches, "Its too loud!"
Charles Roberts has a request, "Introduce yourself please."
Another Savanah, Savanah Cox, on "Ticket Response."
Gabriel Gudding pens, "dear friend."
Maybe that's why Ron Trann is talking about ".inc .ltd .tech – get the perfect internet na…"
Alan S. goes for a third, "[CC} RSF: VIETNAME – 13 yea…"
Again Kelsey Graham posts something about "Sitting and thinking."
All the while Natalie Ellis tells me, "Finally found your email."
Then, spookily, Audrey Roberts sends this, "Re: your email address."
Ryan Watson relaxes me, however, with "No introductions needed."
Allison Sullivan doesn't hint around: "I want to see you again."
Meantime, Patrick Herron comments "RE: dear friend."
HotelDiscount goes on a bit about "Emerald City Savings."
Lizzie Lyles just has to let me know there's "FREE PAY PER VIEW, FREE ADULT MOVI…"
Victor S. Dorodny is concerned with "Fwd: Your Order."
Erica Sanders is no slouch, forwarding "the newest updates."
Maryellen Suarez must be checking in with Lizzie, "FREE PAY PER VIEW, FREE ADULT MOVI…"
Richard Morrison advises, "this is good for business……….t……"
pop3.hpnc.com, again, observes, "You have a Great Place to Start……."
Shockwave.com reminds me that this is the "Last chance to see Wallace & Gromit!"
Gabe Gudding has more to say, "RE: dear friend."
Louis CK Ho urges, "JACK, our CAMBRIDGE branch approved 4.98% 30…"
Becky claims, "Card Limit Exceeded, Account 7a…"
Aladdin Systems seems proud of a "New Internet Cleanup – $24.99."
Jonah Lynn has the "ULTIMATE DIGITAL CABLE FILTER wfj dn."
Corey Gunn, tho, insists there are "Smart Savings on our inkjet printing cartridg…"
Flash Art wants me to know about a "Prague Biennale 1 invitation."
Misty Clark promises, "feel young again lose fat."
Online Vacation Center is putting out something on "9-Day Cruise & Hotel 649 include port."
e-Flux is back re the "Frieze Art Fair."
The folks at Citi Cards want to help with "Your Citi Card Payment Options."
And Dancing Deer News is holding an "End of Fiscal Year Bake Sale."
Andrea S. King counsels, "Stop now!!"
posted byJack 8:33 AM
Monday, June 23, 2003
Act gathered.
posted byJack 1:20 PM
Bedstead dialectic.
posted byJack 1:01 PM
After Beethoven swing.
posted byJack 1:01 PM
SF is looking like the new Brooklyn. I can't keep up with all the personnel! And I can't edit my links, either. Blogger lets me post but not change the 'template.'
Have you heard the one about the young lawyer, the easterner, and Daphne?
posted byJack 8:52 AM
Saturday, June 21, 2003
Pogo brownout.
posted byJack 1:08 PM
Landmark timber.
posted byJack 1:07 PM
New Blogger refuses IE Mac version. This is coming from the depths of Netscape 4.7. It's like driving an old Subaru.
posted byJack 2:22 AM
Friday, June 20, 2003
Were I to start a sweetness list of my own -- and I'm not even close to hinting -- I'm pretty sure Gabe Gudding would never make it.
posted byJack 10:17 AM
Re Bollywood, my choice is to get stuck in the middle of Helen and Amitabh, heaping pleasure upon unimagined pleasure.
Sully writes,
Helen maintained a virtual monopoly in the all-important vamp role. Dancing her way through eye-popping numbers in Sholay, Caravan, and -- perhaps Nada and my favorite -- Don, where she attempts to seduce underworld don Amitabh Bachchan by dancing around in their sleazy hotel room with a bottle of whisky.
I saw this, I remember, somewhere on a little screen in Brooklyn after a night of sleazoid dancing and knife throwing. Also,
Amitabh himself has played poets.
Yes, I remember this.
posted byJack 10:11 AM
Jimmy got there before me, putting Li at spot #9 on his over-sexist "crush" roster. That's so strategic. When he starts wearing Collete or Cherub (why not both??), tho, he'll be looking for guys like me to put back up, I know, I just know it.
posted byJack 9:59 AM
I hate ties. Especially when I'm in one. So-oo, lemme say Li Bloom's blog is the darnedest remax of idea-making and song there is! Every post is a winner! Really!
That should do it. And, ah, I mean it too.
posted byJack 9:49 AM
This just in.
Then I'd probably distract you while you were rooting through my crate of
books and burn your CD's (I secretly brought a laptop to my island).
Advantage: John
posted byJack 9:40 AM
Thursday, June 19, 2003
An entertainment has been proposed by John Erhardt:
Here's a game: who would you save of the NYS writers if you could only take one small crate of books with you, and you HAD to choose the author's entire output? Here's my list:
1.) O'Hara
2.) Schuyler
3.) Barbara Guest (inexplicably left out of the Lehman book, and a better poet than Ashbery)
4.) and if there was room, Ted Berrigan (though sometimes he wanted to be O'Hara)
1-4) are all great, and for sure I wouldn't take any of these myself, because I'd just swim over to John's quarter of the island to raid his crate of terrific reading. So my crate of NYS goes like this, Auden (one of the 'semen-bearing' NY poets) – that's 1/3 of the crate, hmmm; Mayer; Notley – that's about half; David Schubert, Brainard, Ceravolo, Denby, plus all the (published & unpublished) stuff copied to CDs from their home drives by Ron Padgett, Eileen Myles, Wendy Kramer, John Godfrey, Chris Funkhouser, Nada Gordon, Marcella Durand, Kenward Elmslie, Laurie Price, Rachel Levitsky, Carol Mirakove, Kevin Davies, Macgregor Card, Pattie McCarthy, Betsy Fagin, Drew Gardner, Eleana Kim, Steven Hall, Laird Hunt, Tan Lin, Carol Szamatowicz, Harry Mathews, Tom Devaney, Barbara Barg, Lytle Shaw, Brandon Downing, Alan Davies, Joanna Furhman, Rick Snyder, Brad Gooch, Douglas Rothschild, Mary Fortune, Edwin Torres, Brigid McLeer, Jen Robinson, Charles North, Greg Fuchs, Rene Ricard, Tony Towle, Alan Gilbert, Harris Schiff, Joe Elliot, Jordan Davis, David Trinidad, Brian Kim Stefans, Lisa Jarnot, Prageeta Sharma, Katy Lederer, Mitch Highfill, Karen Weiser, Chris Stroffolino, Peter Neufeld, Andrew Epstein, Ed Friedman, Julie Sloane, John Coletti, Michael Scharf, Susan Landers, David Cameron, Sharon Mesmer, Lewis Warsh, Paul Violi, Maggie Zurawski, Kristin Prevallet, Corina Copp, Anselm Berrigan, Jeff Derksen, Rodrigo Toscano, Nick Piombino, Paolo Javier, Rebecca Levi, Brendan Lorber, Allison Cobb, Steve Malmude, Jane Van Ingen, Kimberly Lyons, Ray DiPlama, Andrea Hollowell, Adeena Karasick, Brenda Iijima, Noelle Kocot, Lee Ann Brown, Michael Friedman, Ange Mlinko, Gary Sullivan, Bruce Andrews, Miles Champion, Amiri Baraka, Bob Fitterman, Andrew Levy, Peter Orlovsky, Charles Bernstein, Eddie Berrigan, John Ashbery, Richard Hell, Jeni Olin, Katie Degentesh, and if there's room, Jackson Mac Low, Kenneth Goldsmith & Alan Sondheim. (I'm in a rush so I left several out, but transferring all these CDs to two or three portadrives takes time, and I can't miss the boat! To read the contemporary work I'll have to wait till either electricity or a wireless substitute kicks in, meanwhile I'll begin with the Auden hard copy.)
posted byJack 3:55 PM
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Infected Rat or Hews with an axe ON the BOOKSTORE the DAY Today gave documents of studies, certificates, certainties, title. In all of them I saw a seal that sincerely seems to me I infuriate, because it is a university that goes in declivity, that practically follows enterprise policies neoliberal. They speak of efficiency, but if you ask for a letter of recommendation, you must speak in the end with 3 or 4 civil employees and, anyway, nothing. Little respect has by which it has dedicated a part of his time to educate others. Today that gave that documentation felt that it lent me to a dirty game. They pretended that all those papers had a value and I shut up that they do not have it. They are nothing else forms with a photo and adhered companies. There I did not form. Perhaps I took classes with a German teacher there who taught everything almost what I know to me on philosophy and I engaged in a dialog drugged with some friends. Frankly he was everything. The rest of which I know of my profession, I learned it reading. Single. After leaving the office where I gave the documents that prove that I received 'education superior', I walked by many parts of the city, doing more proceedings. Without giving me account I in front of stopped the bookstore the Day of the zone of the River. For my that place it is my true Maxima house of studies, the authentic cultural institute of the city. The civil employees come, make their work almost always of mediocre way (are its exceptions, of course) and go away and everything is equal. But the Bookstore the Day and the European and North American philosophy, Mexican and Latin American Literature, the history of the poetry, the art and psychology are, sometimes yet and discount there if Don Alfonso Lopez knows that you are a good reader. Who that has been client of Don Alfonso has not been Marxist? There all we knew from the Boom to Virilio. In order to rob books they go to the Sanborns. In order to pretend that they learn something, they go to the university. All that, of course, has an exclusive social importance pseudo-, the Bookstore the Day, however, it follows there. It is a business, yes, what good that it is it, but is a company with very clear a cultural sense. When somebody writes or the history of the philosophical development or literary of the city this bookstore must have an important place the more, I do not exaggerate, that anyone of our ' houses of studied or our cultural institutions. Excuse my cursilería. But today it was a day which I thought much about the meaning to know and in the places thanks to which this experience really can happen Fragmento of the book Inventory of my visible body (unpublished): PARTS YACENTES In addition to the visible parts of the body, exist the calls yacentes parts. They are the parts that are remained in the way, the step-lazy calls, those that according to the tradition the personage must gather before leaving, as I am doing it. The way of the backward movement is made during a chamánico trip, the instantaneous flight previous to the death, what sometimes it is described like have-before-your-eye-everything-your-life. The body in the trip of that moment must go by all its steps, has given them where it has given them. Almost died it looks for them and when undertaking that backward movement is erasing the sign, because what looks for this route is to disappear all legacy. The main yacente part of my body is my father. What sometimes also I denominate they chaman insolvent. When chamanes has fallen, the son goes in his search. That are many trips, of the fault of the father and the cerciorante son who reverse gear in its search to testify that happened fall. I call chamanes to the forces or values of salvation, to the souls of what it made pòsible the calls trips or critical moments, the ascents or reductions in the transformation, the growth of the latent being. But these chamanes agonize or are ebrios. That I learned it in a part of my family, a family of exchamanes yaquis, being-of-flight who in a while declining of their culture became incapable to take the flight, and the parents chamanes were replaced by alcoholic or cowardly children. For that reason hatred to my father. My father broke the transmission of the metamorphosis. My father took. She said that her mother hung legs in the trees above to punish it because when she and their lovers were in the hut, he showed himself. He, according to said my mother, said to me that he hated to hers, detested it and who for that reason my father drank. He wanted to dissolve in the liquid the images of his mother with the open legs at heart of the quarter, refocilando to have a man above. Once I undertook a chamánico trip, one of those parodias that I do, to see the images that my father saw, and saw my grandmother, and I saw its legs and I wanted to touch them. I removed my watered down yard when I arrived near her, I inclined a little, leaving my back it descended, and with the end of my fingers, the described yolks, I touched panocha of my grandmother, and his panocha was good. It was addict to sex or simply she enjoyed it. I decided to put in her. Only memory that while put it, it complained and took the rumps me to push to me more inside. Their hands were smooth and their complaints made me feel volatile, made me feel that that was not happening. It seemed that always she was humid. For that reason so many men looked for it, prostituida was chamana, and as my father had not wanted to be his lover could not be his disciple. And there the lineage was broken, and only they were left the images of the birds that fall to the ground. My father saw these birds and saw that bed in the surface of the drink, and says my mother who sometimes choked itself because the wings and the pens of the birds hurt the throat to him, scraped it. Sometimes also he had to escupir the drink, because he made sick to him of semen of the men who put with their mother in those scenes. When all images are revolvían in their mind, it struck to one of my average sisters and my mother left it when I and my brother we were small. Many years later, my other grandmother, my maternal grandmother, she said to me that this was not certain, because to that it struck my father was not to my sister, but to me and my brother. So my secret name brother-is blamed. When my mother left it, we were ourselves of that place and for that reason neither I do not reveal never my first last name nor reveal never my either first city. I prefer to be identified with my mother and the other city, to have a derived identity, and not to suffer my original identity, the lie of the importance of the father, the lie of the importance of where-being born. Normally I do not want to remember the pleasing images that to me my family inherited. Today them memory for you, to inventory this and to gather all the birds, is dead or is alive. For that reason recently I went to know my call father, and was made a worthless object. And I said: in order to do this, that I do not want to do, I am going to make it to way of pastiche of Pedro Desert, I am going it to not really do of semi-imaginary way, as if one was an appointment, and of my life. What I am living is not certain, is only false rain. Thus it was that I lowered of the taxi and I paid to the driver. Soon I approached close, and I asked if there were somebody. The house a greater woman left and I said my first last name, that to him that always hidden and that sometimes I do not know not even to pronounce. In fact when I said it to the woman I had to lower the hand first, to gather my last name of the ground. Or, to be frank, I had to escupir it of the ass. My first last name is a pedo, sometimes also call quack. I explained to him to what it had come. She said to me that she was not a good moment. It looked itself like my grandmother, was similar to the woman of my dreams. I had desire to lower my yolks and to assure again to me if his panocha were lukewarm. It in the beginning wanted to be amiable and she said to me that I had a brother. Also it had arrived at the university, and it studied medicine. It seemed to me symbolic, because for want of being able to cure, he had decided to sign pharmaceutical prescriptions, and I had decided to study philosophy, for want of being able truely to receive and to give wisdom. We were perfect parodia of which they had been the ideal men of our family. For a moment this internal bitter satire wanted to push to ask to me to him the lady if his son also were an alcoholic one, like all we, but I preferred to remain shut up. It was not a good moment, either, for the ridicule. It was mistreated, was full of grey hairs. My father, said she to me, was about to to die. I already knew it. For that reason he had come. They had given the warning me and had gone there to know something more, to see if it had itself sorry or had something to say to me. At heart I maintained hopes that she gave to me although is a little of which he knew. He wanted that he gave the secret me of the flight, what it avoided getting wet the wings. The woman said to me that it would be better than we did not know ourselves, thus not to alter it. I understood what it said to me, was better to release me to the second city and not to return to be above first. Almost it already marched to me, then, when a man left the door. One was a man of wide face, like the one of my brother. Its skin was white, but burned, reddish. Its hair was ensortijado, the hair of the northern man with whom my grandmother yaqui had lain down. My father had been the first mestizo. Their eyes were ample, clear. Paradoxicalally two years later I loved a woman with such eyes, and whenever it watched them, that knew that I now loved the eyes of my father, know-of-fallen. In that time I happened difficult a little while. He finished to me separating of my companion of almost four years and had been a hard blow or I took root I had turned it. Rather I believe in this last one, because the relations are prepared to dissolve at some moment and only the declining people we think that the ruptures must hurt to us. But now or nothing hurts to me, because or really I do not feel. The man asked to me what I did there and she requested to me very robust that she was to me. I prepared myself for a confrontation, because it was obvious that this one would appear. I remained unemployed of close across and I watched it at the eyes, was there when I knew them intimate way, those eyes that two years later was going to learn to wish, the two moon-of-lagoon, rabbits both drowned. It was old, and I was young still. He was stronger. He could break the face to him, demolish it. He was ready to help it to die, as years before he had helped to die to a dog, my loving first call. mother is one puta?me said my father. It was clear that she was taken. Her woman moved away. Before she had wanted to take it, but he to it exempt him the hand that had put to him above. It retired to the interior of her house, gotten upset. Perhaps one went to the bottom of his house, to put in the vagina the penis of his medicamentero son, taking advantage of who his husband was distracted fighting with his reappeared son. It was higher than I. He was wider. This complexión I do not push myself to wish it, nor compensated its oldness either. It had to demolish it, since the fall of my father was an image that always had governed my mind, the figure of my father knocked down in the ground, the image of my foot on its face. Once fallen it would kick to him. With that kick it would do new parodia of the sexual act, of the penetration, that push pestilento. My mother was one puta, yes, but he did not have right to say it that way. I have known it from the beginning of my life, and I do not need that nobody more me remembers it. Fist crashed against its face. He covered the face and I opened the door of close, thus to cross across and to strike it more. I believe that it did not want to see that scene, and did not clear the hands of its face and he let himself beat. I removed forces from all my body and several times I soon starred my fist against him, his fingers and when these took off soon of their face, against their eyes, their mouth and against all its body, until I knocked down it, as it wished. Already fallen, I began the violation. I did not give to a kick but many him, too many. The woman shouted. Soon neighbors left and they said to me that the police would come. I decided to go to me. Before doing it, of course, it required to erase that taken step, to record that figure and simultaneously to dissolve it. So when I put the end of my shoe on its face, I moved it in such a way that the figure of my fallen father was lost in the dust that was underneath.
posted byJack 6:34 PM
This is dizzyingly beautiful:
winning in most games is the object, but love is the object worth winning for -- when this game finally turns over (a promised eventuality), I'll find a way to love it too -- but for now I leave it like that, for the record: love and repetition, the two objects for which the rules of the game had been written
what better companions, in fact -- and for me the one always fed the other: love repeated; repetitious loves; love's repetitions, etc. -- perhaps I had found a way to synthesize the action (repetition, ritual, and cycle) and the outcome (love), although the inverse was also true if perhaps to the same end: love as action; repetition as outcome
-- Bill Marsh
posted byJack 3:33 PM
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Scene Final
We see the large, fast sad dog jogging toward camera. Suddenly happy dog runs up behind him, with a desperate look on her face, pouring a bottle of chloroform into a cloth. She leaps onto the sad pup's back, smothering him with the cloth and holding on for dear life. The sad pup slowly gives up the fight and collapses. Happy dog casually sniffs the comatose dog's teeth, then walks away disappointed.
posted byJack 2:37 PM
Scene Four
An apartment complex adjoining a strip mall where Global Pizza is headquartered overrun with worshipers praying before a likeness of the Virgin Mary and Her Dogs in a third-story window. Global management has asked the local diocese to caution people against placing faith in the image. However, word of the likeness, which Global officials say is made from human marrow and a cooking oil deposit inside a sealed window, has begun to spread. The cops are falling all over themselves laughing. How you gonna solve this one?!
Over the weekend, more than 25,000 people dressed in red beanies crowded into the apartment parking lot to see it, Global's chairman says. He denies asking the church to deflate interest in the window siting. ''We can't take a position on the apparition of The Virgin and Her Dogs. Obviously, there has been a significant outpouring of sincere religious belief, and I want to be sure Global doesn't do anything sacrilegious or is in any way disrespectful to the dogs or Virgin Mary.'' Meantime, the police ascend the stairs, stopping at a large steel door, recently repaired. A policeman bangs on it three times. A voice is heard from inside.
VOICE (O.S.)
Password!
I pay for bones! You can too!
CLICK! The door electronically unlatches and slides open.
The police enter. Pizza and dog food posters abound. Laid back happy dog and ex-hippy sad dog with long red hair sit at a very impressive computer set up.
A thud from above. Dogs and cops look up.
Part of the ceiling is made of mirror grating, so we can see the bottom of the dog house floor. A dead pizza guy's face is smashed into the grate.
Policeman: Found him!
Happy dog: Hey! Mary! How's it goin?
posted byJack 1:59 PM
Scene One
Hi, beautiful. What time do you get off?
The pizza delivery guy in a red uniform moves swiftly down the hall and into the stair well. Hey, stupid! What's the matter with you, I said GIT!!!
Scene Two
CLOSE on the happy pup, nonchalantly poking her nose into some pizza, then hanging her head out a window of the dog house. PAN across the broken steel door and doorway to the unhappy dog, also hanging his head out the entrance to see where the delivery guy's going. Did daddy hurt you? I won't let him, no I won't.
The happy dog has an abrupt snout, pointed teeth, and a wide uterus, while the sad puppy has an elongated proboscis, round, cone-shaped teeth, and a distinctive, serrated appendage.
I hope I'm not getting a reputation. What have I gotten myself into?
DING! The bell rings. Just a few questions, that's all.
Why do you care about the guy? Do you know him? Does he call you at home? Don't worry, I'll make sure he gets a proper burial.
Scene Three
CRASH!! A large bone smashes through the window. Outside, a delivery pickup drives by filled with drunken guys wearing pizza outfits in different shades of red, yelling their union chant.
REJECTION SUCKS! REJECTION SUCKS!
Unhappy dog: I told you we had a lot of fans.
Happy dog picks up the bone with her snout and hurls it out the broken window. It hits one of the guys in red, knocking him out cold, as the truck peels away.
posted byJack 10:00 AM
Monday, June 16, 2003
Speaking of misreading, I'll double that with my partner, Eileen Tabios, writing to me through John Erhardt:
John,
You wrote on blog: "I'm not sure why I didn't notice this sooner, but Jack Kimball's fucking hysterical."
I was so happy to see this.....I haven't figured out why more peeps haven't commented on this either. I think Jack -- hi Jack -- is so deliciously sly and subversive!
This is a distressing reminder how readily one (or a peep) is misinterpreted, Eileen, John! Why, your examples heat treat that lost thread about authorial intent v. reception, and may very well concern a deeper, core entity that exists pre-structure and pre-psychology, as well. (The entity that dares not speak its name.) Ok, I am still not writing clearly enough to get my foundational message across, I suppose. Look, I intend something very opposite the hysterical or sly or subversive. I'm practicing a discourse toward a blog perfection in touch with when I was about twelve. I had this dream that I was being followed by a dog with rabies. He had these really bloodshot eyes and foam coming out of his mouth… and just before I got to my front door… he jumped on me and sunk his teeth in. Then I woke up, and felt the back of my neck… check this out.
posted byJack 2:37 PM
Might be misreading.
posted byJack 8:36 AM
Hi Nick. That tecnorati link to top 50 sites with 'content' has been refreshed. Poetics replaced, as of 11:24AM, by seal figurines, dragon clothes, kung fu shirts, etc. Sic transit, etc.
posted byJack 8:26 AM
Sunday, June 15, 2003
Video Professor:
We've been through nine eleven
Streaking by the saucebottle.
Available Number:
You've got to put this country
On the blind tides.
Video Professor:
Tool with the plan
The laughing of the seaship.
Fellow Presenter:
Eight Cubans swim ashore
Kissing while the bell rings.
Video Professor:
Welcome people who want to be served
By the milk-mild underwear taker.
Tommie & Charlie [together]:
The spellbound salmon slit her wrist
Man what a mess.
Available Number:
I had to spend a lot of time by myself
Of course I had to use stringers.
Video Professor:
Proud to have taken his invention
With no more life than the fisherman's.
Charlie:
He taught me to speak in short sentences
To rave against the seesawing birds of the pretender.
Tommie:
Shocked upset dumbfounded
With no more status than the flagon.
Tommie & Charlie [together]:
Justice liberty and the rule of law
Welcome to the Dylan Thomas random poem generator.
posted byJack 8:59 AM
Friday, June 13, 2003
Pardon me for my tardiness. Those fans waiting for a chance to view me in person are in luck this Saturday – I know, so soon – between 11:00 and 11:15 AM when I make a run to my local mail box at the southeast corner of Washington Square Park and Harvard St. here in Newtonville. I'll be mailing V.I.C. (Very Important Correspondence), but should anyone insist, I'll break out in song and, doubtless, I'll be holding a few copies of recent books of mine in the old fanny pack, so really, please don't hesitate to let me know if you'd like a copy or two (or three!) discounted from the cover price and personally autographed on the spot. If this Saturday doesn't do it for you, I'll be pointing my antique A4 toward ScruBub for its yearly cleaning; that will be this coming Tuesday, June 17 around 3:00 PM. ScruBub is a celebrity car wash and that's why year after year I spontaneously choose it. It's on the corner of Rodeo and Baltic Avenues in Chestnut Hill. At $33.00 a throw, there will be room for up to four fans to climb into the rear of my Audi and join me as we collaborate on a pantoum to the foam and bubbles as they work their will and their way into all the titanium and rubber outside. (Phone the folks at 1-800-ARKANSAS to reserve your space this Tuesday.) On Thursday, June 19 around midnight I'll be at the Fung Wah bus stop in Boston's Chinatown to meet a good but anonymous friend bringing a supply of pharmaceuticals. I'll have used poetry books and zines that I'll be unloading at totally extreme discounts. But you'll have to be there before the bus arrives, say around 11:30. Sorry, no shares. Finally, on the following Tuesday, June 24 anytime between 9:00 AM and 4:00 PM I'll be making an appearance at Middlesex District Court in East Cambridge, Room 2004. Since I am a private person, I prefer we meet outside Room 2004. I look forward to talking to fans about poetics, blogging, lists of lists, almost anything to keep my mind off official business. If you don't know what I look like, I'll be wearing a rose Lacoste that's two sizes too small. I'll also be sporting signed drafts of my unpublished pieces that I'll let go of for a nominal fee. Well, that's it. It's going to be an enormously busy few days, and I'm truly, hugely eager to meet you at one (or all four!) of these upcoming events. Love and stuff.
posted byJack 9:43 AM
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
for Stephanie,
"…my mother used to give him fourpence and tell him to go out and not come back until he'd drunk himself cheerful and loving-like…" =
Silver men hula through
To the loved world
Because painters' arses
Foment them.
Yeah, hula-ing is impressive...
The rain stops.
(Are
They
From
You?)
posted byJack 6:30 AM
for Katie,
"…sometimes we run into each other on our way to the subway…" = What is certain is that some attacks are premeditated and involve cooperation among groups, including a system of signaling.
posted byJack 6:19 AM
for Laura,
"Would anybody volunteer to carry me?" =
These sirrah eyes in ques-
Tioning an arbor so, those peach
Wearers' styles prefer men's
Orange in passing hens.
Again, advise on why a chimera urges
Achilles if a mile, or enter mourning.
Placid inner puzzles in light none move in
Or daze, putting so much rent in essence --
These -- ease assent, seizing the heroine off-scene.
posted byJack 6:06 AM
for Eileen,
"How to correct memory"? = Contemplying. "…the way sun edited …" = The lewd young up to him. He came to Honolulu on a business trip = "a boulder into light." Don't be alarmed I killed him. I didn't mean to interrupt. This is Sittingraum, the sitting room, one of the latter taboos. (Twenty if you're counting.) Whatever punishment I except it.
posted byJack 5:48 AM
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
The sun is out and there's a hurry over the harbor. Sunny but Boston is never well. All the house faithful and only one forearm holding a fake Vuitton and the second gold to clamp down classmates in a chiller campaign.
Brain-powered counseling is our great art form and fashion advertising is at the avant-garde. The New Yorker cover shows nine stars, among them Ashley.
"We don't want to be thought of as 'oh, the garment's creators,'" aloof Lazaro said as he plopped the magazine down on a table in the team's studio. "There's going to be superscale pairings up flex time on bail."
There is little that's ad hoc about their operation. It's a long story beginning when Lazaro was elected by Chinatown and obtained his skaters' pitchfork. Jack is wearing a silver sequin top, a circumstance that does not sit well. At Mix in Houston clients are endeared to the cheaters' just coming out of school and making it.
Blitz indexers everywhere have turned away from the bling-bling and giant choral line. In Palm Springs people want to fuck with small, young killers. In Hartford – everybody back! – the chemistry of talent and good fortune is no insurance. But in DC, darting behind a vinyl curtain, the toy makers get a hug.
posted byJack 7:22 AM
Monday, June 09, 2003
Season in reverse. Looking for error within the self. Rain on the poncho. Moss, mold, goo.
Thanks for the other selves!
posted byJack 5:32 AM
Friday, June 06, 2003
Menu Items
Blue Flower Earl Grey
& Sympathy (unspoken) 7.00
Half Bottle Luna Pinot Grigio
& Empathetic Chatter 42.00
by the glass 11.00
Shot of Old Bushmill's
& Get Well Card 12.00
Demi-glass of Absinthe
Served with Amsterdam
"Brownie" & Sonnet
Fragment 12.50
framed 75.00
Mylanta Latte & Flarf
Printout (compiled by
wait staff) 11.75
posted byJack 3:45 AM
Thursday, June 05, 2003
From Kenji Satori: "the DNA=channel of the fear=cell is assimilated to the penis of the insomnia of the OKAMA_guy..." The wedding is on.
posted byJack 8:16 AM
Wednesday, June 04, 2003
There'll be a big reception. Robert Pinsky is my cousin.
posted byJack 3:20 PM
Yeah: think about others' feelings before speaking.
posted byJack 2:58 PM
Heaven's been blank for over a month. Give it over.
posted byJack 2:36 PM
Marsh. He's one angry sporter with exposition. "I want to think that art and education intersect at the point of convivial productivity." Like in The Carnations' "Gimme Gimme Gimme" & "Love Open My Heart"?
posted byJack 2:25 PM
I want to infect his bloodline, keep his kin in fear.
posted byJack 8:59 AM
Trouble is I'm not close enough to my revulsion. I hate him because he's vulnerable. Evil eye contact. Bhad breath. His sperm count is way down. He didn't come up after the reading. He never showed. His capital is depleted. He never had any. Besides. I can write rings around him. I hate him and hundreds more like him. Every few lines I cross out because they make me hurl. Set fire to his book and put it out with his vintage Mont Blanc. Spread rumors about his inattentive sex practices. Fuck his widow. Have to close him down. If I read him at all it's to close him down. Close her down.
Love is.
posted byJack 8:45 AM
The posts below comprise my 'love is' for the moment.
posted byJack 7:11 AM
There's a P.S. to not reading: follow received opinions. Dismissals of other poets' work with a smirk and haw equate to flashing my top secret decoder nosering. I agree with you & all the others! he definitely sucks – confraternal assertion without commitment. And it's a flesh thing, most of the time. It's not really the work that sucks (how would I know, I don't read it), it's the poet. Watch what I say, tho, because when I hurt someone with a meanspirited sniff I'm projecting disbelief in the haze of my own conviction. Gawd, I'm thin-pale, my brain's mostly shut down, I don't have conviction. If I put two or three words down to back up my sneer, I'm just projecting an inauthentic hematopoiesis.
Thanks.
posted byJack 7:05 AM
A dictionary of Indo-European roots lists derivatives for gno = know, can, cunning, ken, kith, kin, uncouth, notice, notify, notion, notorious, cognition, recognize, connoisseur, quaint(?), ignore, noble (known, knowable, famous), gnomon (diagnosis, prognosis), narrate (from Latin gnarrare); & these less 'probable' links = note, annotate, norm, abnormal, enormous.
Poets, I guess, know this, so someone's dismissal of another's work by shrug or hum is unclear thinking, a mark of unknowing. Patterns of glottal dismissal show a settlement of ignorance. Ignorance comes easy, tho, among conservatives like me. First is not reading. I won't buy the book, and if I'm given the book, I'll sell it; won't even click on the website. Who cares. Second, there's reading just to find a formal quality (scanning?). Can I do this? What's the vocabulary like? This reveals a poco inquisitiveness, but it's all about me and willful typecasting, bracketing in other words streamlined for dismissal. For face to face ignorance, there's not listening or not listening much (there's so much smoke) or listening to find an opening for my chance to speak (hey do you like mine?). Hanging around people like me is just not fun, unless, of course, there are compensating abnormalities.
What I want are noble communities of uncouth poets who not only fuck one another but stay awake and write it up Oh. If you have to get mean, there's a reason, and have to give it. And it's fucking sweet, you'll be the first to know.
posted byJack 4:43 AM
Monday, June 02, 2003
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads
Silver bunny inside battery, battery spins around
Bike sale: Geoffrey tries to jump over bikes
Men stare at bug zapper, attracted to light
Michael pops up at beach, backyard
Jim and sandwich maker in bank line
Man is flung from restaurant on catapult
Chevy in supermarket, shelves topple
"Love Boat" motif, men's & women's swimwear.
posted byJack 6:08 AM
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