Ok. I can see the xtranormal meme has taken over my life and those of some favorite bloggers. Time — before others catch up! — to go for beautiful and haunting. I'm letting loose my lost epic Wendy, full of feeling. (I just found it under a fleshy presence.)

Morose office.

Couldn't wait. Keckler was here first, but now Faint Canto 1 (Sunken garden).

To Pine Corridor.

Some feelings return.

Terpsicore is ascetic, improvisatory, sherbet hued, Erato, a voice of suspicion and many hisses, Clio, a commanding note tumbling as rumors circulate, Melpomeme, all blues and mistaken early on, every beat ridden like a whale gainsaying oomph. An echo of flame, ailing Calliope still makes love in public (the flying public) and requires a stop-start pattern of marriage songs, blizzard, and dance.

The lines break up around Clio's supplicant remains. Polyhymnia I admit was arrested after the bombing of atomic plants, and there was loss of memory preventing her escape to the heliport. She was handcuffed, taken into custody under the Baker Act. If meaningless imagery had been more vulnerable it may not have mattered she created havoc in the lobby area, knocking over chairs and a table, ripping an Our Lady of Hope poster off the wall.

Did Euterpe get paid for that?

No, no one pays for Euterpe's "assemble of pomposity." Her comment has been removed.

My point is... Paul Muldoon and crew exact dignity in rebuttal... they sound like my mother Thalia. Or Urania. She and.

We the vicitmized (the ephebes in corresponding clouds) tried to remind Polyhymnia rules protect everyone but she believed in conspiracy. Theater in this deep mirror. A light snow performing buthoh. She called the FIB & they sent a helicopter to the rescue, but the others wouldn't let her get to the rooftop heliport, which does not exist.

The official lines end here and feeling becomes something else.

New trope of the hour, Gail Collins says for 2009 old is in. Citing recent precedents, Mickey Rourke, Robert Plant, and the amazingly cuddly sleepy-eyed 70-year-old Sussex Spaniel, Stump, winner of the Westminster Kennel Club best of show, Collins has a point. Best example, Hank Aaron pulled out of the freezer like a ham, the nation's homerun straight arrow again since younger contenders after Aaron have been over-enhanced. So, hurrah for these rebounded granddads and hoarse retreads from yesteryear ... except in poetry as in pornagraphy it's still going the other way. Face it. The younger the better. (Surgeon General's Warning: Ethical and esthetic boundaries pertain.)

This hardly means the demise of writers past 40. Writers age differently. And they never grow old on the page if they know how. The same rules have applied since the beginning. We have to write and keep writing like 13-year-olds (or even younger if you're after a demographic that takes everything in intuitively), that's all. Some of the most senior and even the dead among us show how it's done. Zukofsky is young but he seems adult compared to Elmslie, Stein, Cerravolo. Bishop is naïve enough and brilliant about it, but I'll first take Notley, Spicer (who can seem too grown-up, too, so maybe cohorts and precursors like O'Hara, Schubert...), Ashbery. Ashbery! Can you approach a medium-length or longer poem by John Ashbery and not expect to be whacked by his teenage brain? Other avants, language and after-language ppl, processuals-conceptualists of every stripe, all of us have never written so goofily, so adolescently as Ashbery in "Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape." You know, I don't want to limit my argument to tokens of essentialism, but ageism needs its detractors fully equipped. A black-toothed icon like "Farm Implements" brings poetry down to its screeching youth, a time and place it should never relinquish.

Journalism trope of the hour, technology's fingerprints.

Real off center. Requires teethmarks.

Valentine's this year is shaping up. It's cool to get a bear-gram and an armed robot mini from Hater 1 and Hater 2! Leechvideo sent over a short list of Birdwalk clips that show they're influenced by hands-on literary studies. That's cool too. And coolest, this pre-owned fuzzy pajama top from Goodwill that a tongue-in-cheek friend fed-exed me this morning. Thanks, guys.

No plan is perfect. I have nothing to add to that. Did anyone else hear about the woman who led police on a low-speed chase while driving a U-Haul?

You usually find just awesome service from an old lady. So don't piss off seniors! This time she refused to go along with the rules. She still hasn't figured out why she's restricted to a world without suffering that can't exist.

It is sad we are now separated.

A friend who leaves for a long journey cannot be created nor is she destroyed as soon as the word "GAL-IXY" jumps out.

It's even sadder to think in a while this becomes irrelevant. The Navbar is real and terrifying. Nonconformity of the whole brought to a boil makes crazies!

And does the festival in the run off trample on our rights in other ways? We gather to answer this question and simply the idea of autumn that a boy plays with a flag, a Palestinian boy plays with a Hamas flag. This is why wormholes reject us though there are add-ons with incursive bludgeons as to how a wormhole is merely less sensitive to oblivion.

Bad futures are constantly replaced by hopeful updates. Here's one about poetics opening itself to new mergers of practical and technical knowledge. Dale Smith writes, "And by the new I mean new perspective — not necessarily form. That make-it-new thing is not just located within a formalist machinery, but in a living body of thought and practice that we, as poets, engage in."

Now that everyone has spoken — from fans and foes of irony at [lime tree] to speculators in between at Possum Ego — everyone, that is, who has had something to add, theoretically, and has made her case via blog posts and/or filling up comment boxes with regard to running for class president of poetry, disaster-era semiotics, and other near-anarchic aspects of hesitation and uncertainty in verse — maybe we can turn to concrete reportage? Please, more porridge on the following.

The Trade Books with Fine Art Covers exhibit of over two dozen designs at the Poetry Center Library now through March 7.

Cannot Exist reading, Jan. 29, at Bowery PC.

Boyer and Strickland reading, Feb. 4, at the Project.

Goldsmith & Torres reading, Feb 7, at Bowery.

Just asking.

Pulsing is the new blink.

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Am confused. Just having to capture the logic of America's recovery and reinvestment saga will do this to you. Barack Obama sponsors a stimulus that will take up to $900 billion or so, a big plan; he gets House democrats to draft it and they do, without republicans, but as a gesture to once-and-future (they hope) kissing cousins the dems toss in $300 billion in tax cuts; Obama pours tea and coffee for John Boehner ("o my god") and John McCain ("country first") to massage them coming onboard yet, thank you, they exit fleeing in the other direction; something's going awry for days after as Obama watches opinion polls slip for his plan while he's forced to defend nominees under fire for past-due taxes ... just as opponents find their voice defining the plan as pork; meantime, to bring a new level of crossed purposes into view, yesterday Senate compromisers, 'centrist' democrat Ben Nelson and 'moderate' republican Susan Collins, try their hands at stripping funds from the plan for state and local governments, education, Amtrak, cutting the plan by $100 billion; Obama flies Air Force One for 30 minutes last night to Williamsburg, VA to campaign among partisans (House democrats who have already approved the plan), but this is more a public relations initiative to appeal to the broader base of American voters, no doubt seeding new misgivings among moderates and centrists in Congress, making compromise all the more elusive; the jobless rate rises today to 7.6%. The jump in unemployment will bring democrats and maybe a couple of republicans back to the stark reality of economic collapse, according to the journalistic script, and Obama will have his stimulus with or without bipartisan support. We'll see. If so, the debate then moves to whether this has been (a) truly a bipartisan outreach on Obama's part and (b) whether bipartisanship is worth the effort. That self-involved debate colors our politics for days or weeks and distracts us from preparing for new havoc in international banking and commerce, much higher unemployment here, new US financial rules (negotiated with China), more stimulus talk, less healthcare reform talk, incremental (and minimum) green energy investments, government securitizing mortgages to benefit the system (mortgage lenders), republican gains in 2010. Am confused.

Here are 8 random things about me and how I hide my bad taste in anime music videos. These are tricks I recommend with an iPod or any personal videoplayer.

1. Smoothbore ambush. When listening to The Wiggles, I pocket my instrument and walk briskly around the office or living room so the sound isn't restricted to one area and everyone else gets a piece but doesn't know where it came from. You have to be careful when you do this. Don't stop until the full playlist, including Kill You by Dethklok, has been expelled from your pants.

2. Focused fly-by. I scout out an area in the office or my housing situation before firing up Taarna and Sammy Hagar. I walk around and check for other anime addicts. If there are any, I leave and come back again after lunch.

3. Courtesy flush. I run to the nearest bathroom and flush the toilet once Lupin the Third starts. This reduces the amount of airtime the video has to stink up the office or apartment.

4. Walk around in denial, banter. This works when you're "alone-together" (housemates or colleagues out of sight, in the wings). The instant I select favorite I also begin talking to myself; I try walking from the sofa or chair, to a nearby window, then to a doorway checking if anyone is coming in; and I repeat the cycle while Steal Princess, Rogue's Whip keeps playing. This can be a calamitous strategy if a Demon Puff shows up and tries to bust me. It's best then to pretend Steal Princess does not exist.

5. The Demon Puff. If someone at home or at work doesn't realize I'm in my own space and tries to force the door open while Petting College Girls is fast forwarding, I remain where I am until the Demon Puff leaves. This is one of the most shocking and vulnerable moments when watching personal anime where others lurk. If you stick to your guns and stay put, however, Demon Puff will get the message, and you will avoid uncomfortable eye contact.

6. No big deal. You're in a very public place, an elevator or hallway, for example. You accidentally press the arrow for Mighty Ravendark and several loud notes slip out at a machine gun pace. Don't panic. Turn the horned almighty down or off and remain where you are until everyone else exits. This way you'll spare everyone the awkwardness of what just happened.

7. Cough cough. A phony cough alerts all new entrants into my area that I'm watching Persona 4. This can be used to cover-up The Murders, Transfer Student, Rainy Midnight, and Yellow World.

8. Work those toes. A subtle toe-tap can be used to signal potential Demon Puffs that you are occupied. This will remove all doubt who's in the shadow of the Darkthrone.

Brain damage is in the eyes. Brain trust damage, too. You can spot the bounce in his retinas when Barack Obama screws up and he's forced to deflect our attention. In retrospect, hadn't it been clear to transition executives, the real screwballs, a criterion for the New Ethics in Government would be to pay taxes? A sprawl of voices in my head congratulates our leftist colleagues on The NY Times editorial board for tackling this huge moral hazard, issuing marching orders to Tom Daschle. It's not every day (we don't think) we'll have the chance to see the liberal media, under the guise of objectivity, do the heavy lifting for big pharma and the investor class. As the story line shifts incrementally from hope to doubt, capitalists and their playthings, the media, including The Times, are out to inflict further damage and bring Obama down a notch. Limo service and chauffeur taxes aside, we were told Daschle was uniquely qualified to steer health care reform through Congress. This no longer applies. Submit a caption: Obama screwed up, a cartoon pattern that is beginning to hold in public reception to his recovery-stimulus package now under repair in the Senate. Meanwhile, Obama asserts that this is not a time for profits and big bonuses. In turn, the same government-subsidized forces of hypocrisy that feign outrage at Daschle's $140,000 tax snafu are pissing in their Snuggies over Obama's order to limit bailed-out bankers to $500,000 salaries. Cable news loudmouths, like Jim Cramer, who earn high incomes at the behest of capitalists demur. For sure, Obama's salary cap is nothing substantive, another deflection. It's an overtly populist appeal from Obama, symbolic medicine to go along with more bounce in the retina to unscrew the damage.

A good number. Come to think of it, among the poets I love, for real, a good number of them are ex-Catholics and/or dyed in the wool Buddhists. Same with those I love at a distance, like Ryan Trecartin (see below), George Romero, and John Waters. (I don't know if Cindy Sherman is or ever was a practicing anything; her opus is Buddhistic.) The hysteria in all their works has religion, a matter of faith that fades away or dies. Once there was something out there (childhood?) swelling up around these guys, and in early sexual encounters it got intense, surged, and took off, causing more illogic and internal hysteria to pour up but mostly plunge, embarrassing and yet it's a rocking house party, like losing both death and life, dropping your pants, breaking water gushing down on your legs and heels and further down under the ground. In those terms, there are the visual poets I've mentioned, singling out Ryan Trecartin however for special mention, because he has poetry, he just wants to stylize your head for his online, to match his vision — here's another clip, labeled I-Be Area (Pasta Locker to JAmie's Area), to back this up further.

In addition to the visual poetry of filmmakers and photograhers, there is a textual poetry of hysteria brought on by religious fervor cum death. It could be, come to think of it, this is the only strain of genuine American romance. Obviously, I'm not talking about a soiled grab bag category like American sublime. I'm thinking about a Lost Sublime That's Dead to the Touch. Maybe, alternatively, The Fucked Pioneer. It might start with Emily Dickinson, just as American sublime does, but it takes us subterraneously to darker, greener, more wholesale hells and chat rooms we like to think of as ours, now.

Poets George Romero, Cindy Sherman, John Waters — each to the utmost of her paradigm, concepts, pep, and atomized abilities has come up with visual info that's more compelling than data we poets capture, re-capture, and/or write down as text. (Double dare: prove me wrong.) Add to the visual poets list video artisan Ryan Trecartin, featured in the Sunday Times Arts & Leisure. He pulls off the splintered equivalent of tribal truth-telling in this short clip from I-Be Area. There's nothing in poetry today that comes close, nothing that can declare and convey, I'm not allowed to play because of my past...uncontrollable forces. Yes. What can I do? I know how I feel now...I am waking up. I'm on your side. I am temporary.

Chuck in 3-D. You're off the island.