5/15/86

Thinking over now this story of the
several discoveries of the atom:
the truth is (and there was every
reason for them to sense the
desperate importance of what they
were doing) that they acted like a
bunch of excited, rowdy, somewhat
clumsy boys, bouncing and tossing about the
tiny universe of the atom: their
convictions about the "objective
universe" justified what they did-
they did not anthropomorphize the
atom.

From a poetic point of view, these men
typify a propensity to attempt
to dominate through terror. Imagine
if the atom as a universe of tiny souls.
Might they not take ours anyway they
could if we tried to take theirs? As
scientists we force ourselves not to think
this way- we dissect art and dig,
we quantize, pulverize, analyze-
we do anything to break
apart what is on the surface if
we want to get *inside* something, to
know its secrets. Primitive people,more
accustomed to the *real*dangers that
lurk in the unknown, know how to
protect themselves. We have to learn
to do this again. But we cannot deny
that this must be done in accord with the
true potential of our intellects-

Perhaps there are other ways to
appreciate what lies at the heart of matter
besides the attempt to isolate and
overpower the ultimate constituants. Again,
if we imagined the atom to be a
living thing - which it might very well
be in some very profound sense of
*living*- in the most basic sense of
existence- it would come as no surprise
that if we blow it apart, its going to hurt
us back.

6/5/86

Always two thoughts at once. I think
there's a way to "catch up" by a gentle
rocking movement from and toward
(which, at last, amounts to the same
as other ways, thatis, going backwards
and forwards, past and present.) Which
isanother way of saying "evoke it"
which is another way of saying "wait and don't wait"
which is another way of saying "learn to
recognize voices."

I'm imagining standing over
a vague spot which represents another
vaguer spot in the imagination. See?
Somewhere in the middle there's only one
way out, but that way, built as it is
*inside* the middle of a sentence gets us
to discover sense to the side of what is
happening (and a type of
perseveration, a power play, a skip and
a jump to call a hop(e) something else.
To repeat- which is a way, etc.
Slides down
to revealing) (parenthetically grace, an
epicurean singularity, a s(i)mile.)
Yet but,
ready to return, or just alight, decibels,
or decimals, the anger just subsiding,
another wave).

If it's a choice, see the
past as a sliding trombone, tones disappearing
as part of an harmonic, years seen
constantly against the future's persistent dream,
wakening again alongside momentary signs.

Even when you've listened, you've
listened in a certain tone of voice,
dissolving the point of a decision, forgetting
an instance on a stair.

*

The marketplace's single rule:
giving a higher price raises attention to
the product- a low price also raises
attention- the attenion of "easy"
acquisition. Stupidity consists of the
misconstrual of such ease of acquisition."
But, then again, "taste" or "intelligence"
often consists in hypnotic attention to the
"highest price,"
"the highest value," "the unique" "the
authentic," "the work of genius." Either
way the prize goes to the highest bidder
or the quickest. The once? the now?

*

So anger is simply a change in register-
lyric chirping in basso
proclamations.

*

6/8/86- Disputes (poem) minor and major
Least and most "innocent"=
"child like"- six- lack of "innocence"-
produces an infant=innocence

6/8/86

I again came to the thought that
there are types of time- and that
the emphasis with understanding time
has been with quantity- and a tremendous
amount about time has been understood
in those terms. But a greater
understanding of types of time mjay help
us to again approach some major
questions, like death, which is the one
I am now thinking of. One immediate
question arises- is Death a total
absence of time? What is the connection
of death- and life, for that matter,
with time? this is (essentially) a legitimate
question for poetics. I was thinking
yesterday that to write poetry-
to make any kind of art, is the
simplest access there is to the world
of shifting (tidal?) temporal
states. With a little bit of a shove
from somewhere- practically anywhere
the artist may certifiably be permitted to
gain entrance to the larger universe
of the ancient,
yet ever available- and coveted-
glimpses of the Beyond.Where is it,
and what is it? It can't be pinned
down that way, yet, as episodic
as these glimpses remain,
as accumulation of human experiences
in this realm has led to certain-
let us say, "healthy" suspicions.
Always knowing we cannot be sure,
we venture to say some things may
be so. And, over time, we can take
note of who said them and who
else said them.

Time, in its
ceaseless flowing, its changefulness and
its gatherings, threatens to constantly
overflow events past all familiar significance,
and no one could have ever known this
better than the inhabitants of the
twentieth century.

Things wait, they gather and explode-
how can it be that in the same quantity
of time a human being is born and dies-