Spoof-prone or, simpler, fictitious avant-garde strategies as well as their vulnerable practitioners and critics are celebrated in a newly released film, (Untitled), written by Jonathan Parker and Catherine di Napoli, directed by Parker. In just two columns of text NY Times critic Stephen Holden deploys a massive array of double-edged vocabulary that unsettles to the gut. (Untitled)'s protagonist, a conceptual composer with a perpetually furrowed brow, is said to be tormented with a teasingly paradoxical attitude... [a] hostile scowl. The anti-hero is so self-absorbed and ungenerous that when confronted with experimental work in other fields he is as rudely dismissive as any provincial philistine. Meanwhile, to highlight the acerbic entwinement of sexual performativity and aesthetic judgment, a cheating, gallery-owning and aesthetically 'disingenuous' girlfriend shines her popping eyes like a bright screwball. Holden notes other types, including a self-loathing conceptual artist whose works have self-explanatory titles like "Pushpin Stuck Into Wall." (Untitled) goes for broadly obvious, easy targets, in other words, in a line of lampooning artist-fish in a barrel, a long satirical line that spoofs an avant-garde tradition that goes back at least as far as Marcel Duchamp's urinal. Some would-be targets are employed for aesthetic as well as comedic affect. Avantist David Lang writes the goofy music for (Untitled) and film maker Kyle Ng constructs proto-conceptual pieces, among them, a taxidermist monkey sucking on a vacuum cleaner (Jeff Koons to the second power?). Holden's review encapsulates a chapter on current aesthetic temperaments and fomented doubletalk that run for cover under the rubrics of satirical outrage and conceptual deflation. I can't wait to see the film. For now, I get Holden's picture.

Don't try to be funny, relax, specify the invisible. Ough. While the foxglove de-meadow, subject matter remains a freebie staple. Think of your audience missing bail. There is no news teaching spin. The new geography is hereby wistful landscapes, hum-vacuumed, cuddling an escalation clause (misrule) and their binomial clout, ha and cunning (Darvon and Himmel). The brilliant live over, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with food and drugs. Sorry concentrates.

Every time I visit you in your mascara I see the lucent everywhere, a conceptual structure subtracted from nature like the potato. The shore's also a plagiarized assembly made of torn distance in squid guns, midges, vellums, tiny Gillette letters and smaller decimals. Everything is repurposed into notions flapping motes flying from porkpie hats and more formulaic homework. It's terrific whetted by ideation! What are the assemblers selling, last rounds of an authentic vantage? Miniature schemes? A whorl of cement paintings with vistas (and vitae), for most, nothing but applesauce and shellac. Do you know how many rabbits Revlon tapped? I can't say it's emotional sailing on a molecule out-disabled in the magic, only collectively subjective, nothing but nonetheless.

Best first-person-singular lines from Friday's blogs (there are two): "I am tired. I am photogenic." And "I am not Against, but i am french." Mappemunde and DC's, respectively.

I'm a plaintiff in the recent case against glamour. I'm being taken down. Something about my discrimination in music, which is chopped and unclarified. That's another thing. I'm told nobody's talking to me. It's extremely funny, I've been sending out the lamest smiley faces, embracing the wrong diseases. Scores on fb are defriending and the phone stops ringing. I feel like Mrs. Meaty uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my fears.

Maybe I'm just mis-digesting facts. Before heading to the gas chamber it's going to be 85 and sunny, after all. Oppressed, rejected, sure, I'm in there, but personality disorder is a binding element of hip dinner party kerfuffles and drooling, perverted dalliance. The miracle is, as the assemblies grow ragged, rock stars vibrate through the bat universe playing "Heck and Whatever."

One thing about not being conceptual or a haphazard group, you know you're outside! I always do it for less. Did I tell you? I got all the coverage I need on my tee shirt. After multi-pointed perils there's the clamor and then the imbibition. I didn't know what to say. At the Oprah Store it was back to that lifelong day when the ice tower moved outdoors, and unshaven grandparents (also conceptuals and in groups) left the ice shelters, devolved and bulgy. Next there was this other cool place or an immiscible place; we let it happen. I knew I spent my money wisely. There were hallucinations. So I've gone out further on my own and I'm starting to compose. It's a kind of conference paper. (You knew I'd have my ass whipped.) Bottomline, I've listened to the system.

A flesh-eating virus attacks recent college grads. We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we're too fat to have insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Boo is emphatic. Shivers of a sigh, I made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere that's off the map, the first one, getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition. Then there's settling down to become human, hacking skin off the dead.

Or, I grew up in Chicago, I used to feel locked in apotheosis (or resisting it), befouling the youngest hearts and minds, collating all the splinters into a pile and resetting the fire by myself (in my head). Fortunately, my energy could be made smart. And it is. Like the wind slapping children's ears to spread sunshine in the lake or on the beach.

Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with a master's degree in these matters, says the landmass of gut feeling, sane behavior, and noncriminal discourse, like mine, teeters on the grotesque tattoo of a human skull. I can't turn it down. I can't mean my language. I'm a nutbrain; that's a tradeoff, my trade. In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It's a good thing. That door leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

Brawly triangle. [Today's H & G.]

Doctor approved
sex toys are
a good idea; until
I went broke
I was indebted
to them. In one
direction the focus
is lost. It's scary (loud
at first, blasé and back)
yet there are comic possibilities
as dreams seem to
be saying. Another focus
is adolescence. A hippie
throws us a softball,
variously literal, the power
system centralized, closely
managed as yoga
for planets. Now he and I
are sly about casualties
and debit. We power
our own, mounting a bait
and switch to chalk up
the utility of lingerie,
discreet shipping, and soul
kings touching wood.

How is it that smoke comes out shiny and fallen with grey streaks? Is it fire? When it's ended you'll switch back. Like this is Stu. The last emperor.

Don't disneyfy pissing me off.

Eileen works through her mess, about as brilliantly as we would expect.

Your wardrobe has experienced a resurgence as beaten but breathing as a fad preview in October of what's to come in May. Anyone can see. You're a crusader and victim in the crossfire. You can't stomach the fair use doctrine or what age plays at. Where's the surprise in a seeming long time? The mutt of infancy regenerates, there's a beginning and there's an end, don't fix it. Try to look better.

Go this way. It's remarkably ambitious, it's just off the boards, like when the water lilies kick off their work boots and women rule. Snipers crouch, the idea of Burberry's.

I had sex with multiple staffers here at pantaloons. It seemed fresher three years ago, but at least I was the first to get a grip and hold on. O my decimated, I said.

An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective is achieved. You disappear, and you have children and they disappear.

Inner wresting? That word again. Kind of an inner, unbuttoned, squeegeed pain in the foot from bee stings, a dishonest hermaphroditic feeling gerrymandered in ambiguity, rendition, and ferment that after a while floats away, released at last into some newly impartial state of brittle ignorance, your story shared among sunburned strangers glancing backward as though all is well with the stats, their stats, as though you never knew the cosmos on a first-person basis or you forgot the name of the enslaved for vampiring the engines.

Either Day has been assembled so that its primary product is topic rather than text or some other nominal for authorial achievement. To paraphrase at least one of the two assemblers, you don't even need to read it to talk about it. Of course one can talk about anything, but I infer the assembler means something like 'to talk convincingly or authoritatively about it.' That claim, which strikes me as accurate, resides somewhere in the continuum between ferocious and pedestrian triviality. It dissembles to empower the nonreader who doesn't have to do anything in return to the assembly but improvise a reaction, enacting the life form of an intellectual exchange. As such, the topic (if not the sensationalized assembled datum) is contained in the one-sentence proposition or, okay, concept: Reprint one day's worth of The New York Times in a book format; call it a book of [conceptual] writing [poetry].

Meanwhile on the lagoon…

Introduction to a blurb for Handel Kent Johnson as Orpheus teacher's pet.

There's always one bubble brain in every class. He's taken a hike to nowhere too exaggerated. A vacation from straight talk, missing the point, tripping over important crowd pleasing stuff, what's right in front of the visible us! Yeah, right O

Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons

— splendor that's interesting, t...his collections of purloined purloined matter abnormally

illumined and slurping

the moon's backlash

The because everything's got vulcanized in the process (or triple-quote process), plus his work-about-work is gag-inducing (in the fun sense) underground, baring their tired innards from and meta-withered as a hare's paw struggles, forceding convulsions of self-conscious laughter from this reader's reader, and may I add in a word, Kent's slop is grueling (in the nourishing sense), also it's impelling me to give up reading reading, altogether a body of antiesthetic intolerance that folds into, and turns on, itself so it's not only ingratiating and entirely comfortable indeterminacy: it brings me back, happily, to nanny's re-embroidered bodice stitching, only Kent's you can see through and it comes off! double duty! but the textual surface (which is of course not Kent's so I should leave him alone) leaves me feeling destitute and in panic...like torture, man... so many techniques...

I just want to say, Kent, about your recent special effects, seriously, human imprint mistakes one thing for another; we're like everyone else. I forgave you. Then this.

Also, a minute after reading this gopher sandwich of yours I'm more convinced your personal battle with blindness to the distinction between socially constituted subjects that are confused while unaltered practical reason streams into fruitful accident is complete.

Read this. I did.

Introduction to a blurb for Handel as Orpheus.

A vacation from the visible!

Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons

— splendor that's interesting, this collection of essays

illumined and slurping

the moon's backlash

The vulcanized gag underground, baring their tired innards from withered struggles, forced convulsions impelling ingratiating and entirely comfortable indeterminacy: destitute and in panic…

I do not hope. Almost the same as hopeless, without luck, except hope's pond structure implies passivity discharged by shore conditions. Not to hope is to re-reference flow made out of 45 m.p.h. gusts — this is my body — a priori nil in inner life razing means to get out squeaking stripes burst ires unmeasured glaring everything unscrewed song by Jim Carroll, the names of the verb.

I'm a woman. Superstars down. I have all the training I need encountering rage and Luhmanian systems. The oasis just passed. It was more at home within stage fright and a vocabulary of deconstraining tastes stowing an echelon's ideology. Then you have another urge and we feel gorgeous encouraging adjustment in the hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat. A grown man, I'm crying; jokes turn into dreams. I forgive you for everything. Let's encounter, at my signal, unleash hell. See! I'm awake like you sniffing around the A spots. Declining standards, my approach to intimacy is to bar we all each other. Before it was a movie it was a proem, paranoia's belated redemption, an implacable virtuoso handing over his reins to the ace in the hole.

No ripped-off melancholy, not a lecture/rap, not a spectral story nor tiny swaggering to fugue, but a minuet containing you and me in a force field for our expertise. It's taken this long to read the gospel of wealth. Thus texting is not going anywhere any time soon. We're televisionary, still, describing affable hysteria to make a mark, preferring lunacy to kissing, diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop, and that goes for captioning the box with the receipt, and tarantulas of steel squeezing under the door, isolated by an obsession with coming right in. If I have to I'll be dressing you down to your car character, elbows up, free and easy. There you go, spiritualist.

Can a poet/artist blog get more graphically motivated than Gary Indiana's? And what about his officiating at the marriage between Warhol and De Quincey? Hyperkinetic.

The sky is in the air sort of the hue of golf balls
Sort of wiredly the air stinks ruched with fart
Hey Soledad!

I wasn't orphaned, I just decided to pursue other interests. Legacies dissolve into debauchery but I found a place in the blood. So I'm not going outside without an extra sweater or my fringed jacket. I take no liberties with literal meanings. I'm delighted to take a supporting role. Given. Someday I will have a pomegranate thermostat, an America of high quality. A deepened voice, for now the benefits in language cloak opera in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a trucker's cap.

The dream of writing takes time. I feel bubble-footed locked in dark briefs. (It's not torture unless it causes organ failure.) My tall dad's fiancée has dozens of spices, just so. I'm ten years old. Doing the roundtable quite well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... I write fondly of fair housing. Elements of my style are excessively self-conscious. Safety carefully disguised as fast and furious, knowing race is an issue as is the waxy sheen of this little piggy. You'll see, I keep faith on the horizon that turns a wandering eye to bright licks among luminaries. President Obama appears to recognize the seriousness. (Nothing in this guy's life is normal to me.) I'm waiting a beat.

Hermitage in our time. In the hermit's words.

New titles for early 2010: Memoir and Essay by Michael Gottlieb [a history of language poetry, New York branch]; A Hundred Posters edited by Alan Davies [a CD archive], The New Old Paint by Susie Timmons [only her second book of poetry]; Post~Twyla: Reset by me. All published by Faux Other (Faux Press and Other Publications). More soon.

There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then
Into its body...

— Jim Carroll

I'm good in bed. Give full value. Part of a part. (But) I'm getting ahead.

I'm a sometimes fiend. I often have sex with an orator who is also in marketing. (Ashes to Diamonds.) Pigeon fathers pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the bright series, brocaded and then stiffened into sympathetic parody staving a muleta, the thatched kinfolk.

Small islands serve as hideouts. The guys are restless. Excellent. We shall conquer childhood, read over the presentation, juggle a few heads. You'll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. I'll invade your space and just leave. Did you see weasels blow up? I'll be really conscious, sitting on your face, I was having to toolbar another.

I am inoffensive, remote, and most of the time my headlamp is on, but you know, irony for money is tainted.

How old do I look? I do insight by the numbers, a walk in the clouds, bloodthirsty aplomb, composing a baffling theory of cognition, with jaded lyrics. "Fat Asses," another high school movie about a straight crew with guns. (I overrate my judgment when what I see comes to rest.) At least I have my integrity. Pancake mixes make the best eye cream under the eye. And I take an introspective view of altruism. Guess this comes under the advantage of an insider.

We hardy knew Dionysius.

Conceptual art is portable and formulated: Language + the materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That's the hard part.

Ceci n'est pas un moment de transformation.

Web 2.0's desperate bid for fame has been playedout. Find us where we're hiding.

The mailbox happens. A man's voice, handsome, calm, also nervous. Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that. Our swift powers have never been better aligned.

Scraps and parts of rope.

What I learned from you is speed. I know this sounds lame but what can I say, we were flying high. I annulled you with a hand wave the way we inspire openness and emotional shrubsoul. Nesting austerity is neatly poetic, a sleep-laden vessel of dreams, eating dog food wrapped in a buzzword but no idea.

This is for you now.

Engaging nonlinear oddball. I have no major issues. I'm one of those hoarders of history, buying and piling stuff in the garage, keeping tarnished nanowires and foreign minerals staggered like chairs. I can pick one up as if it's a bowl that's really a vase. Sit and let the sunset pitch its foam. Smoky dogs take the piss tracking flutes in drizzle, shining from sight, playing a bit far, a stack of storm windows, a weakness, a composure for flight a translator can't reach.

Both purchases are burning up.

The sea bream lifts, lukewarm and soft. The Colorado canyons splash.

Splash.

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

Where have you been for three decades?

The fop is a French invention but an essentialist's incarnation. It's now English of course. Le Smoking for driving and dressing on the left.

Highway safety — wow, everything has that just created smell. The Buddha Machine is on low, marking discourse. It's looping Tramp Lapping My Skull. Pointless stupid madness. The double v above his eyes means very-very dunkel. (I'm not.)

So this lack of media polish is transparent like twins missing their luggage. I should be mortified and impressed. (These strategies actually work, apparently.) For my driving, I've hired designers.

Reading Anne B's Odali$que this morning, I'm stumped by an old question: Is the search for X1 X2?

(X = content. Content, the primary noun reference for something contained, that is, not so much the verb or adjective. But the adjective and verb together raise even older questions.)

for Ed Norton: The redhead is a redneck in the Berkshires = an unaligned crank in his whittle world even the whistling stops. Ashy style, a whittle weird. Sorry we don't need anyone at the moment. Still, there's a big reach, hyperkinetic within, the fire gospel and mystical motifs = a holding paddock for the down and hungry. (I'm in the horn section, a whittle peasant.) Tabs are seasonal and the vests are talking. Spinless, the question of trees and absolutes (flakes) watch and settle during the simian takeover. They're in on the take.

Oil mistakes.

There are different flavors, pots, sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving impediments of brawly randomness, others, chaos, initiations in self-similarities as well as... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I've highlighted one in a box. A rolling bit of Apollonian familiarity, a Mainline ranch dressing refabricked in aromas of polycarbonate. Like a surfboard. There's this rule-of-thumb assortment with natural stenches, along with hidden dimensions in smells exploding on the roof while levitating the landscape, ultra altered.

Different drafts and stinks. I'll let you out.

Can't help it; concur with Rodney K, Eileen M, Alex B, and just about everybody else that B Brown's Brooklyn Lunch Poems and essay In Focii are inseparable from the cosmology of the big, talented humanist himself. We are in an undisclosed place, that is, in awe.

My boy is a very fine house. The spire was a secret inside. The child grew. You are now leaving a faraway land. The ballgame of slow, hissy heights is immediate and beyond your big D.O.A. umbrella. Tall men in raining birdscapes. Nothing's wrong with phobia-free mania v. boredom... two verses, a hook, and a bridge... see what you've done? Quality time can be targeted on a wet afternoon like a fondly disciplined python. And we'll keep insisting on feelings not facts. We enforce a certain look in this house. Marginal partnership, aigu, that's not two years ago, dusted up.

Getting ahead of the message. Food, gas, lodging.

Smarts don't matter. I'm laying myself off. Not that I'm smart. I'm more interested now in squealing puppets and dolls. I hate them. They're awful, I said. (You're right.) I hate their eggs. The dad puppets look at me and shrug.

Spinal wigless, they're the ones spotted with investments.

My cohort flock to benefits. It's in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer every opportunity. Looseness keeps young bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettriste metamorphosis in the street, damning grownups.

First-person motion through the leaves missing you overnight, breathing, all smiles, in aqua. Dentist removes gum. Comparison is anticlimactic. Sexual dynamism is a quarterback problem — staying blithe in the win column, an aluminum, tenebrae-filled drape in potatoland dirt colors and echoes of prosthetic fantasy, perhaps, yet eco-conscious and looking cool responding to the frantic call. We grabbed this, while there's a ladder we wouldn't rule out. Let us beguine by the window, a lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. The incision continues in this vein. Time passes — street gangs, movies, lies — freedom is illusory at midpoint. It's personal. The city seraphs tell me. It's almost impossible to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time. Pearl puddles. Conniving backwashes have run of the view.

I feel like an editor / coach in the new bloodbath of city planning and unemployment redistribution. It's an avocation. I'm a free agnostic about most everything important, postcritical, or shaded and flat in terms of emotion and architecture. The term "free" creates clutter underlying the unfinished bike path that never ends. Giving something away like ambience, beautifully made, you'll be taken up on your offer, no sniveling over the petty fuel price. Having sex with a leader in nonprofits, will you take me as I am? I'll stay on my side, pictorially (stone and dented wood). I have a mask of unmatched value that mocks death holed up in rant.

Permission to speak freely, señor? That means you, pal. Maybe I'm foreshortened, shapeless taking up prerequisites of munificence in governance, not crying to lessen the gravity, still I'm listening and I hear a noise. It could be me reduced in size talking to you. I'd like to restore us intact. But how can we save your citizenry who more and more are losing their health care? No, wait, here comes a big glob of bubble gum crashing down. Chilling of course because it's forced. I've lost my way.

Has gender identity hit a pothole? narrator asks. Am I in some experimental state of forgery? And how do I maintain the balance sheets and my resolute informality?

Life is short and drives you all over.

Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for addiction to craning my mien, through which everything is scattered by vintage strobes and liquid jolts emitted by a graffiti masterpiece pulling into Jimenez Station. It's filled with the Filthies and Mr. Abundants wearing income neckties. (Behind the art there's an interaction lab.)

Who is this? Nobody's first choice.

The joke this week was why did guru's cochair say clock the ice during our conversation? She was referring to a few rings won in turf wars, "Will my fortune survive?" I yawned back, on the internet, mind you, as if meta-trigonometry is forever. Security is really tight with the meta-relatives. You sick mother! Sure, I'll take the consultant into my confidence.

I smell a rat. I'm a backstage avatar with an oversized Afro. Your name came up on my snaggletooth. Death haunts not increasing value nor the dimples around the feet. Capacious, breathtaking anxiety, yes, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... I'm done. In a footloose world I've waded out above my welcome, which was special. That kind of language teaches you not to bark just the way skilled manual labor makes you (one) feel like a man. Or a woman.

The body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. You chat up every you (one) in the room. I'm an outpatient. The next stage of trolling pillagers is fickle. Love and money go down together.

Don't hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Say something cartoonish. I'm trying whirling strokes in roughly forty minute stints. To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity. But you don't get to keep larvae. They're apart. Their cloying song goes out and you feel a necessity to ache in baby blue blather, calmly, accruing intimacy. Hey I'm really sorry.

Never stop exploring. Turn here.

You can always tell when they're finished. There are snakes as well as larvae swimming in pools. What do we now? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects. There's a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I just missed the last place you look.

Stay with me.

Sun pours down, unobstructed in this abandoned region. Samples had been flown in and many of us at lunch wanted softer eyes. We'd been warned to stay inside. No need to look at me when I talk, my guitar hero. There were black widow spiders, and incendiary balloons scribbled notes above the large scale nuclear reactor. I feasted on free donuts and coffee, left my dismantling section at the home office seaside, stomp'd, and put my feet up at his place, a little down, effortless, helpless. Every clanking radiator is programming this sentence. Bard of Vesuvius, I made a killing that reads lips without leaving overdrive. Magic attains a chirrup of light freshened with anchor. Why ball now? Leave it to Chagall, stoicism there, loathing here or love may be blind. Oh my god he's got... god blesses him. I just felt a shipwreck with sea monsters back at work. No sorry hold on it's just the worms we uproot. Hanging out is the art of compromise. Slurs little. To save a life you can break the law if you're poor or if you're balled up smart to shoulder perfection. I'll alter my trumpet tones, cock an eye. (Conjoined the two words are underemployed.) All business class and legs to break, pay me now and pay me later. Like a race of giants, welcome to we're not friends.

Dear Anthologist,

It could be worse. My notes say every man's prosody enacts theories of sawdust, eases on down the dress code like a second-hand bow tie that pays for itself. Context becomes a woman's e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Words hurt. It's certain these do. And yet identifying which poems and whose, that's the Hendrick ter Brugghen dilemma, as with all flowing sperm and loneliness we contend in a post-minimalist liberal arts detention center. The dissonance and sports metaphors seem gullible, and a lack of nonsense resists interpretation. Hoarding Skeeter. Ists' opium. My Kindle blows up just trying to make sense (but I grow my colon back!) in context. (I've been wrong about half-dog leitmotifs before.) I'm just curious having compulsively misplaced life's grotesqueries, I'm drowned out by party axons that sound too streetwise for second-rate saws and gossamer voices, these, those. I fear them like tyrants. Prepare the red matter. (There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.) Auden was noised, the requisite critical faculty is parody. You know, your choice of poems sucks, the way celebrating the twentieth anniversary of botox sucks. Collaborating without you like a kotzwinkle alloy, they have to have everything your way.

Yrs,

Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) by Obama. He's a milquetoast. The economy and healthcare, don't-ask-don't-tell. The government looks terrible because it's doing many things halfway. Interior is presently enforcing anti-immigrant policies put in place by Bush 2. Guantanamo detainees are shifted from one prison to another. Obama plans to keep us charmed at towhhalls, baby step by baby step, but it's hard to stomach longterm, while his enemies' operatives ridicule him and his spokespeople with anger mongering. In a democracy you need to persuade and exercise power of governance. We haven't come that far that a majority just 'gets it' about the left's brains and style superiority. No matter who's in charge, government is a problem. Try renewing your driver's license at your local rmv (serving a neighborhood with an average median income), and you'll get it. People who drive are sweating their existence and don't have time for charm. They need directions to get them through the process. Now serving nothing at Window 11.

When camp breaks we call it fl-x-x-f auto-tunes.

First nowhere, and no one is the woman behind me, slumming. Intervention is the better word search. Gang murders are cut in half. I'm not going out in that. I'm saving my homophobia for someone really hot.

She's discounted, for historical justice.

My supply chain is fatalism. An allergy can shape and twist my desire. The taking of whatever works to exchange the hand that feeds me.

Nearly sunset in coconut milk. The skinny eventude brings on fluttering waves of populist rage and dishonest folk. Goo-doggies. Outside dogs are taught to stay, screech, and force it down. Chips smaller for the memory. All in favor hold together under pressure. (Unreliable clique.) Immigrants, bohemians, blacks, gays, subjectivity in a life entrenched w/ decoration, feet first. I'm asleep now. It feels great here. I'm a grad student, on the map.

Space begins almost anywhere, no organizing principle at all. (How to write a publishable anything.) God blesses us, saying "Be fruitful and multiply." We're slotted into type as believers and speakers of Dari or Pashto, one end of the zoological drama in an up-state of perfect moms and sunburned bikers. (Equipped with dark places travel vests.) Everyone here is ready to mess up. Naked and unashamed. The look reminds where fault belongs. (I'm developing a cataract.)

Time and space feel like an institution where parents do realistic work. A heteroglossia in which one mom in three can't swim. She holds the bird a mutant to her lips. Two out of three are feints. Serenely trillions, the patients die.

In Urdu you learn to think for yourself when you're young, and if you're willful, if it's in your nature to want people behaving the way you think, right off you'll teach yourself nuanced thought processes, how you can think for others, for instance, your siblings, your parents (ghost punks), friends and enemies, especially enemies, and strangers, too, why not? Why not think for a pride of people and what's beneath them or above? Frosting on the beater. You start along these lines dreaming in bed then. A complex by prosaic arrangement.

You dream while awake and think it through. The audience follows you. You think about someone else dreaming, you walk in, so to speak. Hey hey my my. You look around and then you start moving. You're there and not there, of course, but you think to bring in a harmless grass snake (this's an experiment first thought by the Prophet Muhammad's uncle) and let the snake move over the exposed back of that first someone you're thinking about. You'll have that person decide how she'll handle the snake (propulsive or haunting). And if you wish, you'll let the snake make his moves, too, in English subtitles. You can exit at any point or you can add features to the dream, this dream in a language the other person, the "someone," is understanding. If you're willful you'll stay in control and have the person and all the "features" you bring in behave the way you want. Recycles sunshine.

Hanging on contains the universe. Whilst easily crossed, do you think? Nearby, make'em laugh, imagine the hurt.

I use photographs or double-crossed text for subject matter. Astronauts aren't perverse, it's the dress code. Not that long ago sorcery and spiritual drama attracted talent. Spinning ponies could fill in here. We once spun like them but later they were less friendly, proliferating, chasing butterflies. I will leave the ponies at home more. Small hills on poppers. A new beginning, the veteran scientologist is transparent, emerging like Sleeping Albert. I knew butterflies had butterflies, why?

We live in a cage, Bennyroyce and I. They made a nimble healthy movie about us. It's about inflating while you inhale. Just a few things I tend to dislike. Neuroenhancers. I'll admit I was curious. A guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates on flowers, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts himself in it. About how often have you asked, Who is climbing this steaming, herded frontier, Mahlerless? What's curved with glaze? Ow, that total prick. La damnation de Faust. I polished the text and handed it in. I can't figure out our farewell let's go get a drink. From the seafloor you want this. Or gesundheit that. (They take care of anyone ok'd if it don't fit.) Vote often. A mutated protein will get restored. A bug is magnified, ironically revived! To keep up we can't find a compromise.

This is how it is. In the Truro of feelings fishermen think like salmon. The aluminum skiff's named Vessel Virgin. All experience is correct. Hidden money downgraded to icy mindset. A single male is required to post. Some ambiguity you may enjoy. Looks ugly, square, gets job done. Good eyes, quick, every inch and flounce dumb, making out in withdrawal. Rhino décor. The only thing more fleeting is fresh chucker. Sobered up, got back to weed whacking. Nothing's happened and it's hours later. The year-old quayside, mostly mixed, cool diodes in crimson, a soft spot for success. Shunt that wings. Then one day the emotional exchange began, crested, and vanished like emissions administering smack. In hard times it's the right thing to do, close to the beach.

Cute and cuter. Where does all this come from? I became an escort despite losing an arm. According to our files, it's telepathic, fathers to sons, trees to rapping patrol cars, or we never get a chance, or I could say it this way. Sit and roll over. Children with partialities end up winking at the flies in King Kong. They swarm indefinitely, having graduated sex for us. Uplift and destruction. (This was supposed to be a surprise.) I had taken prescriptions, splashing her face with water when you protest. That's when they appear, young men with secret ingredients and no children at all.

Braille Martian sex. Do it.

Zero hesitation. Best pan of a review this week. Can't praise it enough.

Um! Custom!

Appellate Thursday. Addicts are permitted to use. Some journeys cannot be put in birds. My shoe travelled way underneath. There are no more birds. Fairchild hoodlums, formless pastries, obsolete. That actress studied a chance to make amends. The militia at this hour, your mammoth kit, everyone at work. One step away a governing history. Milk is anything but sixties. Trust them to love you. Local honeys and lions eating grass. What are whales? All warm, driftless Serena.

A title for July 14, below, might be The Canadian Watteau.

Masa sits on a rock. The sky is falling and I'm on the move. It's not falling in point of fact. I'm flowing like a dancer and stripper in a downward spiral. Gravationally, Picasso's greatest came early, Cezanne's late. I've found someone else, a thinly veiled version of me. The flow is hard to describe. Persimmons even now. The mounting look, what you did. There are broken download, odd quirks and turns, block party, informatics about crash, thorny semen — a man, a higher up, goes blind. Perfect fall. My baby traps me.

Frenemies on my left, bromantics to the right (and vice-versa), it's timely losing track of one's good assets, one's cognitive handbag, one's climactic identity, one's roadside loved one. And now, thanks to world health officials, bed bugs are back. It's hard to maintain dissidence under these conditions.

To clarify, crossing swords, laughing out loud at the Whitney are fairly easy. It's the bespoke inattention that smarts. Inattention to posturing belies underdevelopment, like coming too fast holding on to the avant-garde dead. I'm a failure sometimes, and it's never been tasty. It disgusts me how effortless it is to giggle and go nasty when one is thru.

Dead sex. Bad things.

My entire practice is one obsessive habit. (I know I don't know what I don't know I know.)

I'll give you directions. Could be fun. (I know she needs me, but I know I need her even more.) I'm leaving disjunction behind. (We may write between cracks of sidewalks, 'cause different people will understand the same thing in a different way, Public Enemy's John Ashbery and alternative modes (upending normative modes).) I've got some sentences to show yah on my sleeve. (Ready? Some are going to question the timing of this.)

I watched my stock options go to a reverse split. (And let me just say that this rapprochement has been in the works for a while.) I just sat there I started slinging shit the minute I saw her I could read her like a book. I had her, yah know I am sorry to say, I had her on the tip of my finger. (Was that sensuous? Mmmm.) Really. I just, yah know, I really. I was twirling her on the end. (I've never believed that I nor anyone else needs a title to do this.) I knew how to play her. Completely. Completely, yah know? (And finally I pulled out the most important mapping system in my life, modernists, and their masterpieces, where the count was unanimous. And the "hell yeah" sealed it —) Disjunction is dead and so is sincerity. Back tingles. Anything goes, as long as it's not on paper. (Life is too short to compromise time and resources and though it may be tempting and more comfortable to just kind of keep your head down and plod along and appease those who are demanding, hey, just sit down and shut up.)

Chills emerge. Oh, we are sailing, yes, give Jesus pants. I got some glue and a sharp web scissors. (And I've given my reasons now, very candidly, truthfully. And my last days won't be for another few weeks so the hoo-hoo arising will be very smooth.) Poetry sets priorities right. Like a Ken Doll in the wind. Posthuman redigitalizing of the future via puns and archived recipes. Pulling muscles with Michelle. (Let me go back quickly to a comfortable analogy for me — sports, basketball. And I use it because yah're naïve if yah don't see the dots appearing blue picking away right now.)

Finally she's giving me head citations. (And I know when it's time to pass the ball for victory.) Blood rushes out of penis. (I think, though, much of it for the kids had to do with recently seeing their baby brother mocked and ridiculed.) Licks wet. Whistle this time. (Let us begin with the punctuations that are not.) Hey doe! Betsit. (In fact, we look forward to swearing in head wedged against wall up there at the conclusion of our picnic.) Crudely, shrewdly. (All I can ask is that yah trust me with this and know that it is no more disjunction as usual.) The Java applet invokes duration and presence. Riched lightly. Arching four and blade middle and not touching ground. Still harrow. (And then I thought, that's what wrong.)

If every word spoken daily were somehow to materialize as a snowflake, each day there would be a blizzard. (My choice is to take a stand and effect change and not just hit our head against the wall and watch valuable time go down the drain in this new disjunctive environment.) Xaler swaJ .wollawS .pil fo cra gniwollof tfel ot htuom fo edis thgir morf gnivom pil reppu ssorca snur eugnoT. (I promised efficiencies and effectiveness. That's not how I'm wired. It's not meant to be read linearly — none of my work is. I'm not wired to operate under the same old poetics as usual.) The Bride Stripped Bare, the buck stops here, The Carpenters, the coast is clear, The Cockateer. (Though I think of the saying on my parents' refrigerator, a little magnet that says, "Don't explain: your friends don't need it and your enemies won't believe yah anyway.") Yet they did, and the history they made is worth at least one sunny summer day 137 years later. For three dinners with prime rib, loin of lamb, or filet mignon and one selection of vegetable, I'll take yah to LaGuardia. (I thought about, well, how much fun some constellations have as number systems.)

I could no longer find a way back to seeing speech as transparent. (Now, despite this, I sure don't want anyone dissuaded from entering poetics.) Hold me closer, Tony Danza. Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear. (She drives through, protecting the ball, keeping her head up because she needs to keep her eye on the basket.) It's her, Marjorie Perloff and, uh, I'm meeting her actually at the MOMA Members Dining Room for lunch today. To work with a plan that is preset is one way of avoiding subjectivity. (Really, we've just got to put first things first.) In poetry it is a little different but more so and later I'll go into that.

Yah want to cause some trouble? I quit. Eyelids close. (She's not working out.) Yah got the hang of it. (But don't do it from a desk.)

Last night I crossed the line. (I am a deformed flamer but language itself is deformed and it's subversive so I want to go home now and read Kahil Gibran and try to get it right.) I did some bad things and I definitely crossed the line. (I forgot my tuned art of exile in the new poignant and painful wave last night and that was both eerie and real like a flashlight and recklessly middlebrow I guess.) Not the sex line. (Ok, we had a little mundane, surreal sex but it wasn't that great from across the room so does that count?) But I crossed the line in any case. (Like I said I had sex and decided to interweave other voices and limit my vocabulary, severely so, come to think of it.) I know I knew that I knew I was swept up. (I'm stalling here. I'm concatenating pithy phrases throbbing in my brain, taking a hike on the dark edge far away from familiar belief in shaken contextuality and diorama. Joshua, Merle, Ayukawa.. Rage on, beachy boys.) I'm planning to remain in office tho because King Solomon has to build after the fall. (And O Volvo! was that babe ever quotidian a fall into the deepest apeshit played to the limits of silence. I'm imagining a total eclipse. Oh, yeah, I adore a babe.) It's straightforward learning, even if it's on a curve of some sort. (The only thing that's curvy now is the place between my ass and my rectum exploding at that dangerous intersection of domesticity and science fiction. I see the fishermen. I see their daughters. What a water plane spray into the Oresteia, the lush junkyard of ecstacy!) I've been thrown a few curves of late and, I'm not crossing any more sex lines. (Not until I get my head dismembered and break into discomfited lyricism, plumbing the light in the terror of my long-predicted and now brazenly apocalyptic breakdown.) This was more .. a whole lot more than a simple affair. (Kevin and Brandon patrol this territory. They are beautiful poems. Reading them I want to bomb and then rape the living earth. Losing my soul is a revelation. I'm mad at heart. It was fun, actually.) It's a love story over time. (I love to have fun. I love to celebrate poetic living. I live to celebrate fun. I reside in California! Somehow I feel better now.) Forbidden for sure tragic but at the end of the day I promise to repay every cent I stole from every teacher, curator, art critic, and the public. (I have a carbon black Amex because that's the kind of brushed covering I am. Want to see it?) My travel costs are my business even tho I let my guard down. (Yeah, what do we care? All we want is an elegantly accessible chronicle of interdisciplinary montage. What is identity?) I had to let off steam. (I'm unafraid of the harrowing human experience, always beginning, coming like a corollary thick as molasses. Yeah, yeah..)

It's a pleasure, a belated and weird pleasure, that Al Franken has been declared winner of his Senate seat on what should be the eve of his six month freshman anniversary.

There's a messed-up embedment of sly, failed masculinity translated from when realpolitik kicks in during one's youth with hyacinths: Capital martyrdom: Historical subjectivity smothered by permanent gender discomfort, male or female. The sight of Bruce Willis loosens some stitches. Willis, Stallone, William Hurt. Also Steven Seagal is a huge, nominal failure. We're waiting for their last movie, the one about Seagal paying Willis, Stallone and Hurt off (they pretend to be his protection team) so heroes four can whomp Lilia the Easter Cretaceous Bunny.

Four and half months of March-April...love it!

So it's apparent I've written most of a short essay this month on pantaloons. Like a poem, for me, a prose piece happens in stages and different sequences. I'd say by now the argument of the essay is laid out. Paragraphs 1; 2; 3 & 4; 5 & ff (to be edited); ante-penultimate; penultimate; last paragraph (I think it will be one paragraph) to come. Will finish soon.

Before cymbals rang and the first song reached the human ear, and long before verse was parsed, there were snores of ancestors and their coughs and grunts thundering in caves. Back then the body taught itself speech with shrieks and groans to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition. Cuddling together in dampened corners, our predecessors, given time, gave up other sounds moving their tongues and lips, expanding somatic-sonic repertoires into an output of contrivances to express feelings, humming first, lilting, orating, poeticizing, then, most abstract, writing stuff down, occasioning poetics. But only in the last hundred years or so, and regarding poetics, only in a fraction of recent years, did we learn, finally, to collect human emotions and temper individual will to instrumental gains in order to live within the ad agency. The ethos of clients and us first. Teamwork. Our people are what make us great. Our underground. Cave One.

Moreover. Or less. Let's see. How about a new brand? Save the world in one minute. Brief history of the ad agency as business model, and its impact on XXIst century poetics (first decade). Subtopics: Intramurals among principals and creatives (who are which? not always the same? etc.); growth marked by add-on strategic functions, media specialists, pr, brand mentoring, marketing research; evolution of adjunct strategists into stakeholders as the agency takes on more accounts -- curators, publishers, department heads as major accounts; readers, bloggers, and other friends-of-the-agency as secondary (but highly influential) clients; WPP Group as prototype of theory-conscious, esthetically-informed, globalized commercial collective; fish eating fish -- the parallels (//) concept-search swallows language, flarf, oulipo (flattery through affiliation -- a.k.a., cross-selling) // WPP eats Ogilvy, Grey, Young & Rubicam); actionable insights and data-based advice enable the agency to speak its clients' mind.

Switching personnel faster than Steinbrenner in his heyday, harriet perks up: Camille T. Dungy, Martin Earl, Annie Finch, Eileen Myles.

Frankly, until this weekend I thought Twitter and tweeting were ridiculous. Language reduced to bullets. Bullets of the moment to a supposed audience waiting to be shot with what? Hey, I'm walking south on Greenwich going to my favorite dairy restaurant. Eh, I just hopped on the elevator on four headed to the 12th.

But two bullets about tweeting this weekend have shifted my views. Protestors in Tehran succeeded through Twitter S.O.S. messages in exposing international media, especially CNN, in lackluster and spotty coverage of the Iranian election aftermath. May the protests and tweeting lead to something productive.

Meanwhile, poetics students at Penn are registering an increase in Twitter traffic featuring Joe Brainard's invention prompt "I remember." Brainard, ahead of his time, again. Brainard's topos, I remember, appeals to an American mindset. I'd describe that mindset as production-geared and prosaic at base, that is, atheoretical, factual, and inclined toward visuals and visual language cut out of everyday experience as empirical evidence: "I remember one of the very few times I ever got in trouble at school. I got caught doing drawings all over my hand with a ball point pen in music class." That mindset is a lasting form of protest, too.

I got married on my day off. Once. I don't know what to say. I have all the coverage I need. My gaze is met.

With or without roadside assistance you have to maintain respect for subsequent generations — no matter how they look or do.

Things are serpentine. All those tattoos halfway up the arm, over the shoulder. Like last year's t-fashion, with filigree computer-generated designs, tiny at the navel, flowering asymmetrically in a burst of excess around the neck. My goodness, glad that's done. Still, it's serpentine. The poetry scenes have converged on Chambers Street Station. (The MTA has assigned Chambers to poets. Can't say why, except it's a short sprint to so much.) Hey, it's crowded with groups, subgroups, couples. More of everyone. There was a spot, once, where poets could hold forth, shout out their conceptualisms. But now, thanks to PDAs and piled-up agendas, everyone's here and shouting, almost at once. Only a handful of still-discernible subgroups are taking time to listen (to one another). Shouts slither to the ceiling and up the stairwells. I wonder what the affect is at street level, on the roads out of town?

Down here we let this happen.

Still not having opened the book, I'll sign off on my perusal of Conceptualisms acknowledging its (perhaps) strongest argument, one that comes inside the phoneme s. By professing potential for more than one theoretical construct to conceptual text production, Venessa Place and Rob Fitterman strike down a narrower campaign that allows for conceptualism v. an everything- or anything-else. Conceptualisms introduces innumerable ideas behind (perhaps) competing spectra of conceptual approaches. The short order, then, is that s blows a hole through regulation of or authority for conceptual poem making. There is a plurality of conceptualisms, as the s demonstrates. Like good conceptualists, the authors of Conceptualisms make it easy; the gist of their commentary is texted instantly, phonemically. There are conceptualisms, there are flarfs, pieces of many practical approximations within poetics that have yet to be categorized with precision.

Pop in here favorable assertions concerning Venessa Place and Rob Fitterman, Notes on Conceptualisms collaborators. Rob is long-committed to re-schooling poetics, understanding better the divides as well as the confluences among various practices, especially those that have impacted NYC Downtown. His varieties of Metropolis attest to his quickened allegorizing of appropriation, establishing the bloodlines that connect him to praxes that could be called language-y, process-generated, and historicist. I've followed Rob periodically over four years, and I find him a poet of now, closely listening to the public surround of glossolalia, a poetics exemplary of late narrative and, if you will, of an imported thematics buffoonishly accessorized with all the bells and whistles of open thievery, as he attests, "I like subjectivity; it just doesn't have to be my own." Vanessa Place listens closely to everything, as well. Back in December I said her La Medusa "bubbles up from the most bugged bedroom imaginable" or, to paraphrase, her texts appropriate the audible and the imaginable and just beyond, more centered on sensual impressions, recording them, and making them. I can think of a half dozen women of her cohort who, like Venessa, freely borrow and re-order what they think they see and hear. But Venessa covers more ground, makes more conquests (according to my score card) through her stylistic leasehold on truncated discourse. Her poetry keeps dangling a nexus that is never quite there. Poets and readers keep grabbing for it, but all there is was a zapping sound, which altogether resonated as a lyrical whiff of repeated and perpetual coitus interruptus, a party trick that you may know requires cooperation on the part of both whiffers, poet and reader (or collaborator). Vanessa is one of the high-heeled poets, usually women, in my experience, who drive other poets, readers, et al wild with zap and fear of domination. It's that zap we crave.

Hey, Friday! Time to lay some cards on the table. The stoopid Stoopid Cards. The ones that count.

Human agency is last week, last century. Today it's simpler.

Simple is good. Easy is better. Stoopid is simple, easy, and nonchalant to the nth. Treeless intimacy in the Wild Forest.

First there's google poems. That's good, creates buzz but takes some stitching time. That's work. Busy busy. A tactical improvement is to have ideas for discourse projects and keep concentrating on ideas, subordinate the text, forget it. With respect to which all the manual labor is alleged — I'll say I keyboarded a text even tho sweat equity is invested in/by someone else doing it, scanning it, whatever, then for another idea looking around for some new guy to press a few keys so an algorithm does mostly everything. Simple. Easy product. Like Warhol 2009.

The nonchalant part is offhand and genius — stoopid genius; call your product a nonproduct, a failure; just walk away from it.

Next, sweet talk a senile critic or two into New Stoopid Relevance, hand them the S Cards. Mastery is toxicity. Text is schlock. Failure is ironic.

Then a book like Conceptualisms can emerge. Buzzing and busy. If a poetics critique can talk about texts we never read I guess I am qualified to talk about Conceptualisms. It seems awesome and timely. It's a collab, among other things, and singles out items in the authors' knowledge fields, taking real care not to be comprehensive. That's so cool. It seems a little language-y however in that its critique side is so tenuous, given its noncomprehensive constraints, it will strike a reader, say this reader (if I do 'read' it), as more of a meta-trope that weirdly competes with its topic(s). I think that's one thing that's language-y. (I like language-y, btw.) Whereas a so-called stoopid critical maneuver would be more pointed in the direction of generating meta-ideas about nonmastery and projects that fail. (And that could be great and cool.) But who knows, maybe Conceptualisms does meta-idea generation too. I'll have to read up more on the web. Anon.

There's a new heart beating around here, and nationally! It's a regimented elite-ish poetics sector within the sensational and expanding social networking of American culture. Yes! Making poems is blazingly cool when you can follow corporate models and even cooler when you can boil down ideas to templates, epithets, and simple adjectives. As Verizon Wireless states, "When people work well together, it shows." Maybe that's inappropriate. Or it's conceptual. (But not both, 'cause this would overload the Lego framework.)

More.

The tightropes Ron Silliman traverses today in his reading of Conceptualisms are super collidal. I think his survey is commendable for a start. More soon.

Ripped off the sports page, queasy does it.

Everything is hard:
How to tie a tie,
How I met your mother,
How to kiss,
How to get pregnant,
How stuff works,
How to make money,
How to
for How long,
How much,
How to lose weight,
How to cook a turkey,
How to make a website;
1980s, 1990s.

— Rodrigo Toscano

Wired for Spotasaurus. You'd like to part of this minority. It looks so good. Any requests? Hurting construction arrives with a basic message. Imprisonment will come to liberate us. And we'll always do it for less. When life gives us lemons hallucinations may occur within an opaque regime to restore the mutated. Didn't I see your character more rounded, forced more to join the death march? That was a still apostrophized. Then came the filching of imitation in existence, slightly crafted like a soup.

Mortgage your bank accounts. No sleep for renters of a stall. Ref. lack of.

In the journalistic and blogospheric sense May 4 is a long time ago. But this date stands as when a threshold was crossed with the publication of "Treatment," a seventeen-line composition that marks high achievement deploying a severe economy of means, argument, conceit, repetition. This is a poem's job. This is a poem's poem. Although Ange Mlinko would abhor the essentialisizing comparison, her "Treatment" is on scale with fine short pieces by John Ashbery (of almost any period!) in its sweeeping intake of landscape, social realities, microscopic accuracies, and perhaps most important, palatable distances. What's missing is the mannerist wink-wink. A nice deletion. Superb work, merging insights from "all its."

Terrifying. Ruth Padell and Derek Walcott cancel each other out of the Oxford chair in poetry. Padell, who held the post for 10 days, resigned yesterday after admitting she covertly diminished Walcott's candidacy for the Oxford chair by sending reporters e-mails about allegations of Walcott's numerous acts of sexual harassment. Thank goodness no backbiting like this takes place Stateside! America's poets are much better behaved. No nastiness. No insinuation, no innuendo, no whispering at the back of the room. Our poets praise their publishers unqualifiedly. And the feelings are mutual. Curators of readings respect their responsibility, choose performers strictly on the merits. Agendas, if there are any, are stunningly unhidden. Open houses. Fabulously engineered parties. Welcoming e-lists. No poisonous e-mails are tolerated in the lower forty-eight. From New York to San Francisco, from Bard to UCLA, one never wades through a bricolage of truths, half-truths, and lies to distinguish the good guys from the less good. Power and position mean nothing. Why, we're all mostly good guys! That's what it means to succeed in poetry today. Utter lack of combat and spoiled attitudes. Pleasure, deep pleasure in another's achievements. This is what an educated community of poets and its public deserves. Joy. Solidarity.

The translator means anything. Whole sequences juxtapose pajamas with alienation. Water flows among us like a heated rug. Deprecation: It's bad for the economy, a friend writes. Zinc down, cosmos down, President Denzer. A cloaked woman with a purr in her voice encourages terrorists, the maelstrom of youth. A piece of purity inches away. Tomorrow the network will be sunk, purple gallinule in tow as twin attachés spar twice achieving a handsome apotheosis to etch the "pink hawthorns," como eso. We give not a flying fuck. Like I said in other whoofs, inundated with liberty from the camphor compartments, back to places we ragged to moral efficacy, like hems to derails. Still, the festival curator’s a raspy, borough voice in a tanktop calling for contingent inscriptions, cryptogrammic to mis-arrange arcades countervailing seepage along the tide flats of Brigand Inc. As he votes veep still dresses left, holing up in precision of observation and details slightly askew.

Sorry, winner, "precision of observation" and "details...slightly askew" are discourse samples coughed up (like leather bracelets) to veil mild opprobrium.

Stiffen my nasturtiums. Buddha on facebook.

A good number of readers here regularly go to Dennis Cooper's blog too, but a couple of recent treatments at DC's are severally concept-avowing so I'll just say, check them out. First, there's today's post by Alan Horn on Amazon's project involving "statistically improbable phrases" or SIPs. The post/essay illustrates again how the manipulator of digital code can create contradictory forces resulting in a spectacular gamut of text generation that opens up (mine) fields for expediting poetics into more encompassing detail.

Second, don't pass up Kevin Killian's Jack Spicer 101 w/ comments that number 85, so far.

Feast or beast?

(a) Hydroxycut;

(b) Dereck Walcott;

(c) Cheerios.

It's time for sibyls to inflate their physiques, focusing on feeling good on television. Our first vice, spindly. There's nothing linear going on. I want to do something very pure and disgusting, eking it out, measuring it by their one rare smile by one and hints of merciless discipline. I thought so! See, a vocal hollow. I need everything at the bank to get to the nail salon. I'm a self-challenging entrepreneur. I wear the biggest suspenders yet I'm a foil coming back for more off-guardedness from Hugh, my wife. Her bubbies are so blood-filled all through Starbucks they never leave the table. A pair of gory stories with flashbacks. You can hear them crashing. She's a Jeep Victory accident I keep dating to kill the sordidness of being nourished. Stopless wiretapping has surprising thematic depth sometimes. Unfortunately disrespect can feel like eavesdropping. Everyday voice is a loop of operatic passion restraining everything else, like with Hugh. Or more like getting to be made up and automatically turning up for a goodbye pageant, moving through an infancy stage, adolescence — no further — then a kind of death with ironic rebirth as the winner! Hugh was with me right up to the sibyls. I was saying.

Basically: tops the list of incoming freshman fudge words, as we know.

He basically authorized it.

— Dick Cheney, in response to Bob Shieffer's question this morning whether George W. Bush understood details of enhanced interrogation techniques deemed legal by the Department of Justice.

When I was asked about why Robin had another poem after The Moth Poem is over ... He's had for some time a suspicion that all of these poems — the poems he hasn't written and the poems that he read and some other things which may be included — are part of a large book called The Holy Forest. But I think his holy forest is rather different from the Grail forest, where you simply meet odd beasts and odd maidens and knights that get mad at you for some reason, or as Percival says, people either tell me to do something, which I do or don't do because I get angry. That's the kind of forest that I'm talking about. It's probably the silva oscura of Dante more than anything else, which is also known as the human condition.

— Jack Spicer

Marking the end of suspicion, Robin Blaser, RIP.

Thus the universe is gerbils-friendly. Fess up. Insert turgid search data. Biggies. Smalls. I'll-show-you Samson as a genre youth with the power of oxygen then all-things-unsettling, notorious, and crust colors (from grabbing an acoustic guitar too long, too much) so hell feels warmer. Toss and go. A few nights later over breakfast Outrage Bridge is ground in. Wood ants with infectious moods fly to Paris or Dalila, a ham amassing narrative. Rumble with me, slabs. Discover your psychic legacy, putt our kingdom on the map, dash neediness and flatten all sponge-festering symmetry into a gargantuan pizza. Tortured pizza.

Ok. I hear voices in the kitchen. My thoughts freeze in total makeover as we recede, putting it mockingly, without being egotistical. Search data. Search date. I could reduce the service charge for flirting with you in an ascot as a hired driller. (We let the elders dictate everything.) Voices. Parcels smeared on the arc for a female anchor shorn of hair. My mawkish arrogant diva-opportunist. Marriage is looking good, a mistake but "not a lasting one." Meow.

I won $8100!

For craftspeople and strategists of poetry to move out of its pamphleteering halfway house, events such as last week's Segue gathering (sketched by Tim Peterson in assertive detail) need to take precedence. Imagine the recursive appropriateness and bitter timing of having a young architect demonstrate that poetry's "relationship to the larger culture" is that of a cattle egret to a cow. The Segue reading (which I did not attend) featured architects Robert Kocik, Benjamin Aranda, and Vito Acconci. What these three prove is that multiple domains and merged disciplines constitute a genuinely collectivist impulse that contributes to their individual ingenuity. Acconci has long been wordsmithing as we know from his early conceptualist performances. He knows how to do architecture, according to Tim, "through words." (Are there contemporary poets who know how or make the effort to write through chemical biology or physical therapy?) Kocik has developed a schematic engaging words for the Prosody Building, a design tailored for poets. (Quick, let's get a laureate to write Kocik verse to live in!) Aranda has the most adventurous approach, I think. Tim summarizes Aranda as exploring

various ways in which a building can be built from language using scripts to generate self-perpetuating forms which have analogies to the way nanotechnology works. Aranda's discussion captured a fascinating dynamic between building and dismantling, as when he noted that "in architecture, and perhaps also in poetry, you need to break things down and decompose them into their finite parts in order to build them up again." This analytic activity is related to the analogy of sand piles and the way in which they can model what he calls "aggregate assemblies," noting with a slightly anthropomorphizing delight that "the parts themselves know how to reproduce or grow into larger structures."

Sounds familiar.