Will, you remember, Stephanie? A will from the past,
We’re thinking you heard its once-dying poet
Who cradled the face sorrow brings to bed,
Someone who could listen to bluegrass and lose it.

The wind smudging a porch. That sort of will.

We’re scared. / Good night to expose no non-accident or two that don’t matter, will made tactical
As we circumvent exchange elements; we’re remaking spatial morality into chance agency,
No view, no dash, no longer having to know.

Rainy Sundays we break for the Beijing Olympics observed or imagined on the ceiling. Rationed atheism, a main event floating free, secret ballots cross wires in codes of conduct. Glue is the open door, the color of bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another.

In Japan they have I-novels, sticky variations on Euro-American models. The I-novel cantilevers inside without. A flood of phone calls offers ‘relationships.’ No time for that.

The I is like everyone else, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights for having interesting things to read, packing up old love notes, crayoning hearts and drunken smiley faces, pledging boundless love.

Of course the I-novel is heavy. The I spent decades as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on ‘live data.’ Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals of pulverized dots — big, jaunty shapes that swaddle their inner pooch, ducking your punch and closing the distance.

*

Again there’s no natural retrospective because nowhere
Now might the flow of ideas be so well hidden ..

Right. It’s past. Passed. What you say reminds me ..
It’s a bold contraption.

When can we enjoy sobriety, the doo
(implicative space)!



Pitches more to wade out above what’s sung

Above the beautiful, well pronounced.

That’s what we yell to joy, lightness, yes
Thrown in doo (where else!) :

Kyrie in fully sensory hellcat wrath.

You contain only so much of me.

I live where you belong.

*

Someday all this will be yours. A few
City blocks that lean socialist, an oblique, neat,
Untapped atmosphere w/ corners of slovenly
Housekeeping and, worse, earnest alignment,
Reading strewn everywhere and living
Chronologically simulate the senses; these new scents
Went in circles as tho undressing.. sidestepping
Into some prowess of floating un uniquely, unquietly, new —

The cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two.



In the mental part, covert specialists use tightly wound differences in expression to gain advantage for incriminating thoughts; their goal is to march with humanists halfway, paternalism indulged through wisecracks; but most of the others, wayward humanists, we render as divas and idiots, and they take the bullets; why?

The cosmos hence is unwilling to go far, this way or that, a plywood-and-particulates object flying in time where light is produced by something heated.

Let me grab my pen and clamber over here to the iconic network... you’re right, this isn’t the mammoth for you or me. Before the heat dies we’ll try praying in all directions and improve our math skills for our partners’ sexual satisfaction as they pivot from jokers to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.

Blackened windows:

We know we don’t know
Facts are a marketplace,
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.

We’re trained in several logos and theologies;

Hey it’s obvious as that degree you’re holding.
Hands down. Take a verse.

Sung language has a light vegan sexuality

We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties



Hanging out in their unusual white corridors

Suggesting you’re still trembling from the



Chew off, just a short chopper ride

From the bank and trade. It’s vegan

With a so called mother gloss, 1st-
Order phenomena pitted together as cognates

Still coming to seed and adornment,
Half-audible ricochets feeding us like a lawn.

The focal point is the entity with many focuses getting to further foci.
Isn’t that a calling?

*
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.

8) The practice of Counterclockwise is nothing at all, only sustained focus and innovation in nowhere equivalent to I won’t do it, nah, thanks.

Nah

all right, let’s start the open air in complete command of nothing. From the outside the sky is in a square shape, bolted
in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for interpretation.

We’ll ingest all at once. Absolute-ly
blind tessellation, inflating while we data dive

exhaling the meaning / meaningless problem activating our trial over the last half century.

Investors, scientists working together.

1) many immediacies, many readings

2) consider sources, friend some

3) available materials, define availability / IT

4) improvise (and comment)

5) I wondered about

6) who are you / pertinent to whom

7) how does that sound

You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in

Just to make you list. I’m from and form the periphery;

Say you’ll be back. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right but not extreme poverty

As we grow up in your backyard befouling young hearts
And minds, collating all the splinters into a pile, resetting
A fire by ourselves (in my blanc head),

As we consider more relax words and in a big pax,
A pastoral: “How do I love you and everything,
And expect no help?”

Some things you need to whisper again.
(I forget now what you sound like.)

Adorno says plain speech is a fair shake at fame

When you put your money down.

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

I deed thus

This, a squalid compound of chunky fuchsia-footed jewels camouflaged for conceptual continuity as it were, trademark of both natural and technical production

Since we sport a manifold like vacuum,
Like the oboe in I. Got. You. A destiny with foam.

It bears repeating, Larry Eigner, Ornette Coleman, Frank O’Hara. All to the good. They serve as coincidental models of the improvisation we would do good to intake as joyful, almost effortless touches from a person of poetry.



These qualities are apparent in work executed today. It’s easier of course to look a little further back to find hard cases. There’s no question Frank O’Hara is chef culprit. He single-handedly invents and remakes what’s incidental, embarrassing and important into a generic sport. He’s the outlier. You could set up an O’Hara Dance to check everyone else’s score on a klunker scale, in which one klunk means you’re not straining, you’re fun because you have something to share, you’re right here talking to us, you’re deeply witty, you’re in his league; while three or certainly five klunks keep you out, perpetually. Ceravalo, Spicer, Padgett, Towle, these are ones (or near nil!). At times and in impossibly different ways Wieners, Brainard, Mayer, Schuyler, Ted Berrigan, Coolidge are ones. Creeley. Also Eigner. As we turn to poets two generations from O’Hara, and younger, it gets harder to tell and, overall, given the increase in numbers, the scale is off. Greenwald. Godfrey. Notley. Myles. Andrews. There are more.



Compare any one to O’Hara’s zero, tho — Take Eigner. He’s a fine minimalist when it comes to materials. He talks for the birds on sagging utility wires. And he keeps it up for years, our engines are engaged, just not so thoroughly amused. That makes the experience a one. O’Hara’s wit is to keep you going. Again, appearances of pleasure and ease are not absolutes. Ceravalo surpasses O’Hara in the poetics of (ex-)Catholicism, a topic I am not qualified to tout, only mention. And Ornette Coleman in the background parentheses beats O’Hara and just about everyone else into his natural pitch and free retreat. All to the good.

That would be a big maybe step.

I have aged for you. You may have noticed I’m on the side of folding in meaning that has no purpose, just sheer falsetto.

You want in? Try eye accessing cues, carve out what rafter was seen strapped at the top. A name for emphasis might be imagined.

A serious noun.
There’s a method to share.

There is an automated palletizer of bread
With industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
In Germany where groove is still a verb.

An odd relay plants these thoughts.

We don’t do pinpricks, I’m told. I did my research.
Since I’m not adding bespoke grammar to discontinuous anguish,
This would be a special offer, today only.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods.

*

We global capitalists itemize all bets.
One pleasure is borrowing sentences to raise
consciousness: Neuroplasticity feels like games,
‘competition, everybody against everybody.’

Big-eyed instincts?
                    hard
to get out of the valise. We pirated the code.




You can say we pushed it out willingly (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation).

The fit was good.

I noticed you work under me to make your poise smoke
w/ the problem being.

Your search had no results.

The time is split into categories for work and for the sinister about-face of a system download added to our labor.

A life sentence for causing a ruckus.

Call me when you are ready.

To remain disciplined for our new celestial motion weekend
Calls on comfort and drill, “...habits of empire.”
Start over.

Cocktail wieners.
Kids love them!

Peel’em back and throw your knives.
A (s)he-mind’s pill for song and dance is so! long overdue.

Our partners are shiny then fallen, with grey streaks.

Huh? Is it the fire? Up in smoke flames ideal sparks glow,

The red moon indispensable for smearing the made light

That travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl.

We’re back writing without an attorney.
“That’s how the paint sails” within taxonomies, overheated,
Sprawling, a mind occupied, just so. The bus door was gone.

We God fearers defied the polls and voted against our interests;
Later we’re taught the integral self can level with others
While sadness is a public health problem.

So protesters are hired to raise contentment rates.

To deconflict our strategy from style
In no time we put six norms under water
Then we ate cupcakes.

Today one can eat excellently here and bluegrass friends come also.

Nice save.



There’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around.
The sentence: the Bruins lost squawking about losing
Diagrams the opportunity


‘But should we use quotation marks?’

Came up as a refrain.

By then our thought freezes,

Just why we reserve dopey incongruence



Nested within notes to adjunct scenery filling in

The right performance, the normative outcome.

          Many are watching a tall fool spin
                    to guard shapes of light and ice volumes

Stuck at Could It Really Be “Quoted.”


Food chunks, one bird.

Lots of us were gifts
and land across our example
while we saw the wind taken
that the waves under you lift

Tho see-thru as doves
which today are nothing more,
swept with a visual certainty
no matter how we change in love.

I’ve always been mad about something else.

Everything is trauma. (“I exist.”) Everything takes away from the center

[S]o caught up in rule-governed mechanics.

Who is there to tell no one cares when no one cares





You’re a mess, honey.

                                 — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little, no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

exhibitionist’s subtopics within the power den,

to prove repeated effort extends pleasure.

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

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

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

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

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

The angels.

*



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

They are real actors, not people.

We have no idea of here & now —

Connections lost in reality were scarifying.

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

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

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

*



We have no idea of here & now —

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

& that’s the gist of it —

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

To conform to our belief system to get forgotten.

Your new book.

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

1.

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

2.

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

3.

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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



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



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

Upbeat message. We call that yeah

Parentheses to explore;

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

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

As one’s eyes reset

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

for Kenny G

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

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

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

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

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

We’re in no hurry

Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.

There’s no good time to get sun, which is a tragedy.

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



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

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

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

Look me in the eye, I’m ruined.

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

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

You know it thru an evolutionary pin drop

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

It just an illustration?

Don’t be afraid.


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

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

*

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

Song: I elect to be ignorant.



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



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

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



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

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



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

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

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

There was no progress.

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



There’s to party.

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

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

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


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

Hessian perfume like axioms —

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

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

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

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

— shifting attention but staying in touch

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

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

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

Complaints and sworn declarations,
I forget meeting you.

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

Vocal member of the Illinois cultural

Studies group carrying a sawed off

Shotgun.

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



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

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







                                g

Response: Captain, can I bare your hooligan credentials?



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

I hope I’ve been clear.

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



When you got up your voice was

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

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

To paraphrase ... you can’t predict
How or even what you’ll be taking from your background;
there are too many of you.

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

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

Hotter. Sandier.

— Wetter. Saltier.

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



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

Some standards.

Shined asides.

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

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

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

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

Parable: All my spam is luxury.

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

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

I believe a poetic artist must be set free to make more and more mistakes. So long as he or she is branded for lack of taste! (Big money in poetry takes care of that.)

Whew.

*

So who picks my music ’n prose? She’s a far out snob.

Our area is interpretive search.

(Want to read our minds? enjoy.)

At 1 time there was modernism + plus in diffusion. Then a going dutch like critique, thanks to Millennials. Yamaguchi feels such criticism got way over-modulated becoming 2nd rate, safety school argot sampling masked hostility, the bravura of indecisiveness, backing it up with inexactitude ’n randomness from what we were doing before the next procedural (The Aughts) took hold:



A bright skepticism mostly shows up as identity. Your youthful identity, hardened m.o.’s, everything close to you — evaporating, taken down, resigned to further decades of processed shock of the simple, school crossing zone simple, where pop classics are re-authenticated, highlighting most everyone’s weak spots.

Hey Siri (British female).

Up with proportionality, southpaw.

She spoke plainly for a big hearted killer
Darling. Morning

Revels meet one halfway, blurring promises in
An aftermath of the hiatus, letting all adages die down.

Is this a document or did I make it up?
Frozen water on Mars is the smoking gun.

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal of whose pablum?
(Where should I hurt?) Once and be done.. A few more own



-ers fix the climate really fast with glass and nickel coated levers.

A marionette’s defiance is as semi-defensive



As ours but we of the liberal arts seem tall ’n

Inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

A religion of men sharpening endurance, risking focus..

Hermes masks, a precondition as two satyrid mayflies pop to something, ones who advocate for peace. Their reputations recede but the fact of apprehension remains way before guns were worn.

*

The males in our families prompt discussions that started long ago to induce “flipping surroundings.” Interdisciplinary terms spring up around an almost empty campground that remembers nothing of the nearly transparent sensory esotericists.

Bags of cardmember ideas prolong their standing in infinite battle with consciousness, jackets of air, big superficial clamor.

*

To repeat and hear homogeneous
offshore drillers / the plunk..


You and I live off their body equity
where my future holds in love with my clients,
also I’m environmentally debunked;



The sun is a naked bulb,
I’m a working temp, piling up losses
on the periodic table, petty in wanting you / I do

Architecture’s the thing.
A blood moon.

Some glass of red wine, a symptom of lifetime pains
— Has nothing to do with what give shivers.

Being a pain looks gifted that way.
A lot misunderstand to dote on.


Even better, we’ll toast to change and no change.
That said, it was a colorful gathering.

It’s not likely anything unsaid simplifies what
Need saying, those we cannot recall. Toast.

Cold draft.

There are blasts from out of nowhere..

They keep getting a fifth element.
I’ve discovered squeezing adds more activity.

Still. Very well, all these charming Blimpie squirts

Like dreams going to fray.

I just read children get 10% of daily calories out

Of soda (pronounced soder around here).

That’s how they become bilingual &
Fill up with feast superstitions.

Greyhound hurling on seesaw feels fine, really
Most footage balances if pushed, so it’s wax,
Never merely serene. More news, relaxing,
Comes to ground, triples no questions asked.
Cedar clump> falls> rust pad dead> in a day.

Later Lately
Ted Greenwald
Cuneiform, 2015



There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them.
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 11.

I may continue to continue. To be pressed on cardboard.
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.”

Eyewitness: From Black Mountain to White Rabbit
Carolyn Dunn, interviewed by Kevin Killian
Granary, 2015



A sidekick or co-perpetrator, Carolyn Dunn went along with Joe Dunn.

They raised a postwar ruckus in the mid 1950s, through a remarkable chain of poetry circumstances and at least two ‘renaissances’ — including life in Boston, a stay at Black Mountain and most notably, after Jack Spicer lent them airfare, a move to San Francisco. Carolyn and Joe dabbled in the antic art of saying yes, allowing events that unfold in Eyewitness, Carolyn’s memoir/conversation/exposé.

To strains of Charles Mingus and “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” what seem exquisite are Carolyn’s clear verbal snapshots that add up to realia and hard data for digging these extraordinary events. Saying yes is central to Carolyn and Joe’s friendship and marriage. When Spicer made that airfare offer, Carolyn’s reaction is unambiguous: We couldn’t pass that up! So in San Francisco, as in Boston and at Black Mountain, Carolyn Dunn was partner and daily witness to Joe Dunn in service to poetry.

Joe’s was a special life that no one aspires to, in fact no one can. It comes to one rather than the other way around. Early friendship with John Wieners in Boston led to both John and Joe attending the last weeks of Black Mountain College on scholarship (using teabags three times to save money). For Joe and Carolyn this is followed soon by returning briefly to Boston, driving there from Black Mountain in a used car they named Opus in Pastels (after Stan Kenton), covered in rust patches and pink and purple anti-rust applications. After a few months in Boston, they made a well-timed move west to reunite raucously with other poets from Black Mountain. Once settled in the Bay Area Joe cofounded White Rabbit Press, “steadfast printers” to poets of the San Francisco Renaissance (Kyle Schlesinger). Joe’s was a daring physical commitment — Carolyn’s memoir confirms Joe covertly ran off the first ten White Rabbit books on an offset press at his work. More remarkable, Carolyn and Joe bet the house, their first floor furnished apartment on Jackson St, turning their quarters into an open meet for poets where “a party atmosphere prevailed” (Ellingham and Killian) along with an ongoing workshop for young writers to read new poems and discuss their work.

As memoir, Eyewitness is “one HELLUVA ride!!!” to quote Carolyn Dunn’s last thoughts about her times with Joe. As conversation, Kevin Killian is the Platonic ideal of interlocutor — gently prompting Carolyn’s memories from 60 years ago, big ideas and small (“You and Joe had cats…”); he’s on alert supplying frameworks to place detailed domestic recollections within a chronology of poetics events. Eyewitness sketches over blank lines of the Dunns’ adventure, enabling us to imagine more readily their concentrated work-cum-open-house in which first-order poetics was famously redefined as the praxis of poetry and discussion. It reveals salient points about Jack Spicer coming to the Dunns, first in Boston, later in San Francisco. Many others follow, Robert Duncan, Denise Levertov, Robert Creeley, Helen Adam, Robin Blaser et al. Of course, John Wieners. Joe and Carolyn were touched all over by these beings. Carolyn’s yes in partnership with Joe's enabled his youthful service to poets, service that became a lifelong celebration to the lucky few of the Black Mountain persuasion(s), their processes, their poems.

Song: If poetics is a democracy, evasion in poetics is subject for scrutiny.

Don’t get me wrong I think free speech is nominal, so there’s freedom to evade. I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend (that’s down). What’s it? There’s no workaround to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.

End quote.

Response: You have that special someone with a question.
If you’re willful you’ll stay in control, have the “one” and all the “features” you bring behave in unmeasured fondness?

Another question, I think.

Hurriedly now.



In the 1960’s we’d have taken time to assess Professor Falconer’s behavior. (A few minutes, at least.)



He’s a quick study today, if we translate him into readymade ideas coded over decades, daddy, older gay man, angry Oxbridge lib, suicidal loner ex-pat.



How collected and contextualized, though, are Falconer’s unraveling and fated demise as Colin Firth shows in the 2009 film A Single Man, adapted from Christopher Isherwood’s novel of 1964. Falconer’s well-groomed mien and pensive movements counter vulgar reductions of the code. Falconer literally comes to us floating in and under our view as opening credits blur from sight, signaling a watery exercise in stylish melancholia. Formerly chief designer at Gucci, director Tom Ford exposes a capacity for lachrymose austerity to encapsulate a privileged academic life around Southern California in a good time. Falconer inhabits the optics of Ford’s good taste in editing the best patterns and fads from the swinging sixties. Falconer’s residence is a spectacle of stagy / relaxed graphic intelligence — a glassed in pied à terre as might be envisioned by Pierre Koening or Donald Wexler — with interiors, both in Falconer’s house and campus offices — seemingly Van Rijck-ish — finicky-modernist palettes and iconic utensils of the post Sputnik era offered with proportioned visual flair — an IBM Selectic gleaming (gloomily) alone in the background on a side shelf.



Colin Firth gives flesh and blood to a mature homosexual prototype. It’s altogether credible that men 15 or 25 years younger than Firth-Falconer run after him. In sexual and cultural terms, Falconer stands in for the way it was and still is at times, apart from pop representations: the older, more accomplished calls some of the shots. Falconer coincidentally is a type from a less militant era, like today, in which bisexuality is not viewed as an absolute copout within gay milieus. It’s equally credible that Firth can be attracted and appealing to Julianne Moore, a friend and an ex around Firth’s age. Dancing together for short segments, drinking heavily but maintaining decorum, retaining their politic distances from one another — these are some of the more seductive elements to type.



In sharp contrast to flashbacks with Falconer and his dead lover, the single man now keeps other male interests at bay. Ardor is demonstrated only when imminent, understated. The film’s architectonic restraint exhibits a deeply queer promise of ok outcomes that operate here mainly within flashbacks, many in the form of wintry dreams where Falconer and his lover meet to close the circle that’s left wide open by the lover’s death. Falconer’s story-length plan to shoot himself unfolds as magically rational and even stoic when foreclosure is topmost. Near the film’s end, we are exposed to the specter of how a young, guardian-angel-faced potential lover achieves stunning presence of mind to protect Falconer who rests alone in an adjoining room. The young man finds the suicide weapon, hidden in a drawer, and keeps it safe by clutching the gun in his hand while he sleeps. As A Single Man has it, only one of them lives through the next morning. Another circle opens agape.

Anguish over a panel about reasoning and not writing anything down, an experience in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy sidewalk. So that’s one.

Once. This is very much a down, also. Extends thru rainy nightfall. I reason the surrogate image (x) is the serious and newer down. Razed; rain’s over, dancing on the lawn, its light flown as an oily example.

Side streets extend to hourly weather; to the power grid;
the rust fabric of walls about to be torn down; the danger of falling temperatures; they did.



I’m writing for one reason alone, to ring an alarm (an annunciator panel light).



Duly of course not sounded.

I try not to be serious.


I should be writing this down.