Distribution Automatique

Saturday, June 14


Thinking about Einstein- he got the
most widespread attention of his
century by speaking about
the inmost essential things in the
most essential way. The basis of
matter and energy- matter, energy,
Now- matter, energy, power, identity

What is the central assumption of allow
religions? It is the linkage of the concept of
an identity to the concept of an ideal. this
is also the basis of all intellectual and political life.
To link oneself with a
viewpoint shared by others is to convert an
aspect of one's identity into a community (currency,
current/currency) an exchangeable unit).
The "ideal" level, then, would be to exchange
the whole of one's identity (an ideal/ the ideal)
for a social ideal. The current of all of
(human) time could then course through the
individual's experience, infusing it
with universal applicability. The human
identity "Christ" and the identity "Buddha" were transformed
into communicable - images via narrativization
and poeticization. This is the linkage of artistic
collaboration, each infusing the other with
authenticity and energy.


Reading Einstein's idea that "the present
instant, properly speaking, does not extend
beyond here," so that "the only really
simultaneous events are events which occur at
the same place" (Ideas and Opinions)

What about the idea of time and causality?
An event A causes event B- what about
the relationship of time sequences outside of
A-B as compared to events within
this focus-

"time" does not atomize- matter atomizes?
think of time not as a substance but as
the relationship between actual *things*
(the analogy between actual *things*
(the analogy between words and substances
make their comprehension easier but we do not
reproduce the experience as a construct each
time the idea is comprehended
"This moment -properly speaking- does not extend beyond here."

but *here* and *there* receive messages from each
other- thus moments increase in significance as
their message is more intensely met by reception-
thus light (maybe) goes "in search" of
its use- light sends a message "something is
over here."

matter goes towards sources of energy
Elemental forces (things can stack)
Elemental phenomena (fire) (things can melt).


This is j just how lucid things get.
Virtually *no one* at the same time could
possibly be interested in this particular
message unit. But stretched out over a very
great period of time the particular specifics
become more and more important.
Imagine this from the vantage point
of hundreds of years! With time, the
material "sorts itself out" drawing more
and more importance to the specific point
in viewing the whole gestalt. Imagine
drawing away from a visual point of reference, on
the earth's surface in a rocket. With
greater distance, the specifics play ever
changing roles in the whole gestalt. We
may imagine this as a "lessening"
of importance, but this is true from a
limited number of perspectives.

Think of this psychoanalytically. Perhaps,
if I am aware no one will be interested
in the specifics now- I "hold" it by writing
about it- an appropriate application.


Kafka drew attention to Dickens, for me.

When something is being discussed, the
side effected by the simple reality of being
itself can rarely be overemphasized. How
such a perspective reformulated reality
is by a shift towards "local use" (in
experiential assessment) of perceptual dental.
The classification of
information is *always* affected by use-value


Parallel response is the normally
expectable pattern observable in
human beings. Even when people do
not respond "in kind," most actions
elicit parallel responses.
Psychoanalysts- and artists-
struggle against this conventional
pattern of response. (How does willing suspension
of disbelief fit into this?)

Reality becomes more and more
estranged from actuality as responses
to actuality fail to provide authentic
connective methodologies.
The new perspective
must provide these
connective methodologies both
from the perspective of
communications between people and also
a language for interpreting
and expressing original viewpoints.


Obviously, energy is exchanged by means of
light (Velvet Underground -"I'm beginning
to see the light"). By means of "reflection"
the mind comprehends the otherwise incomprehensible
energy patters of other minds. By means of
"reflection" entities translate the information-
the message of light.

There comes a time when a transitional
point is reached that a perceiving
mechanism can still extract energy
from a source of information but the
elements of this source are incoherent
to a nearby perceiving mechanism.
This extraction of energy is actually an
exchange of energy.. The perceiving
mechanism draws energy from the fact
that the increasing dispersion of the points
of information can be reconstructed
by the perceiving mechanism and returned
by pattern retrieval to a temporally
anterior state.


There may be such a thing as a time
shift (as described in the previous paragraph).
This time shift may be brought about by a
perceiving mechanism reconstructing an already
decayed signal and experiencing this pattern
(as a regeneration of a formerly expired
bust of energy).

This transitional energy may also function
as a trigger mechanism.. Something is needed
to convey energy from one point to another
point. Once it is conveyed
a process is needed to change the energy
from one form to another form.


Idyll on Mt.Olympus

Ideal, idyll,
idle, idleness,
idol, idiom
idolatry, indiosynchrasy,
idiot, idiocy


Friday, June 13

Now, on Jim Berhle's "legendary" blog- poems and pix from -Popular Mechanics poets Stephanie Young, Tim Yu, Mark Lamoureux, Peter Davis, Aaron Tieger, K. Silem Mohammad, Nick Moudry, Sara Veglahn, Noah Eli Gordon, Dana Ward, Eileen Tabios, Jim Behrle, Jordan Davis, Christine Murray, and Jonathan Mayhew, and me!
Check out this terrific new poem from Stephanie Young
Well Nourished Moon...Thursday, June 12, 2003- POEM TITLED WITH LINE FROM DAVID HESS-
"If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."
Vilhelm Ekelund

..."The human bootlicker mentality may
be a harmless thing- it is not until it
reaches the level of intellectual clarity, yes,
the stratum of genius, that it unfolds its
overwhelming stinking power. I believe that
Schopenhauer at some point had to hold his-
nose when he thought of Goethe. He did not have
"to fear the eye." (p.120)

The soul of a nation are its poets. Individuals can't see their souls either.


To be presented with wise thoughts causes me to feel more comfortable in the short run- and more vigilant in the long run.

One thing leads to another. For something not to lead to something else probably means that it wasn't really something at all- it was probably a pseudothing.


So many people can't even commit themselves
to a house. They wander from country to
country, they exchange beliefs the way some
people change a shirt, they exit from and
enter into relationships, they make money
and throw it away with equal indifference,
things endlessly moved from place to place.
After all, there are so many kinds to
live in:- big ones and little ones, ones
in the city and others high above the sea.

The specific person has specific memories.
Some consist of ways of being with
people, knowing them, allowing them to
coexist with you and each other. I
remember long ago myself as a specific
person with specific memories. Now all
these memories consist only of words. An
indefinite calendar of dates follows
such people around. Weaving around each
other in a dance, as interweaving, a
setting and resetting of dates.

Eventually you stop short. What the emotions,
Gertrude, seem to be saying consists mainly
in finding the exact place where the paragraphs begin. These
places consist of freedoms- as many as
exist are the possible ways my steps can take
me places, always back to finding that
the same places where things meet is going to be
called a borderline, a boundary, something that the
Greeks called a god. This is the place where
paragraphs begin and meet.

Paragraphs begin and meet watching. They
begin, she said, with feeling, a specific
feeling. Somewhere beforehand, they fight it all
out with each other and come together to
a place.This is not a place of agreement,
but a place of coming to the same point.

A chain, a connection, consists of
links. Similarly a constellation consists
of stars.The shape of what occurs is
similar to what will come and what
has come before. Links of birth to life and
death to life; connections of blood and
minute types of cells passed from generation
to generation. countless trillions of events.
Bit by bit we stretch ourselves beyond what
we were.

It is all to escape from a trap,
to stay within this shape and elude all
the doors to terror and take the one to
freedom, each one, each nuance a different
kind of freedom. To escape from a
trap the stillness of time burst from its
shell of silence and flashed across a void. One
spark, one fizzle in all the cold emptiness of
no-time; a flicker of an imagination of
a jump, a sly beginning of sly suggestion,
gleaming with a suggestion of one possibililty
in all the black and ancient futility of
absolute nothing. Before there was any
something, endless nothing, stretching far
beyond an imaginary horizon of totally
imaginary nothings.It is not possible to
begin to imagine the doubt surrounding the
possibility of meaning of one tiny flash of
almost nothing in the absolute certainty of
endless nothing. What could one thing possibly
mean in an endless sea of zero? This, in
truth, is the pathohs of all beginnings. A
little fragile bubble blown in the face of total
nothing against a far more than
infinite totality of doubt that follows
the suggestion that this one possible anything
could mean anything against the total
nothing. So silently came this almost total
zero against the endless sea of possible
nothings and long forgotten possible somethings,
that almost as soon as it was something, it was nothing.

This tiny, infinitesimally miniscule something
existed so short a time that the pressure of
the universe's unblinking indifference, measureless
neutrality towards such a puny and brief possibility
of nothing. But in the eons that followed that possibility
multiplied itself so many times, that at
times the vast emptiness itself began to shrink
in its relative size to the equivalent of an
empty box waiting for itself to be nothing
more than a container of something, and at
first only the beginning of something.

The neutral, indifferent smiling separate
empty universe wouldn't begin to give even the
slightest attention to this minescule less than
significant beginning. For all the warmth of the
later neighboring constellation, for all the
heat of billions and billions of later neighboring
suns, this ridiculously meaningless venture into
the gigantically and ever growing nothingness rubbed
it the wrong way and it ceased to exist as
abruptly as the surrounding edge of the growing
universe could flake from the solid granite
of infinite pre-time's solid mass.

But something in the surrounding locale
of meaningless emptiness seemed to remember
the small glimmer, in a kind of reflection of
the glimmer that flickered for a moment in the
mirror of the infinite empty void, giving a reflection
on the silver screen of its infinitude that
resembled in some minutely small way, the
glow, the warmth of that first minute spark. the
reflection flashed again and again against
the infinitely broad expanse of the
horizon of endless no-time. Eventually, the
reflections passed each other and the image
of the original spark grew only minutely
longer. The reflection of the beginning repeated
itself endlessly in the infinite expanse of
almost beginnings. It was so slight it was
hardy to show against the
silent mocking, indifferent expanse
of nothing.

Over the trillions and trillions of eons that
followed this small spark began to be reflected,
began to be imitated. Certain resemblances repeated
themselves, again and again, while other variations
shot out across a vast expanse of time like
a comet, never growing in size, but travelling
and touching on such vast areas that they
acted as messengers, bringing this resemblance to
more and more places.

The resemblance was a fire, or a kind
of fire, but not yet with any head only
a kind of flicker. Yet the resemblence
seemed to suggest something new, something
endlessly smaller in size than the vast
empty universe that mocked and put to
shame any grand illusions on its part
of quasi-time, or almost-time. What
seemed to be covered was something, but always
seemed to be rocking against the magnitude of
endless expanses of absolute nothing.



When I read the above to Toni she said that
it reminded her of Samuel Beckett. I
had to agree, but I was puzzled. This was
on Monday, December 25. Tuesday, when I read the
newspaper in the morning, I read a brief announcement
that S.B. had died the previous Friday, December
22, but out of respect for what the author
"would have" wanted, the announcement was delayed, and
the ceremony was kept secret.

Kklebnekov's insistence that "spiritual"
dates be logged, when coincidences occur.

In the same week, the dictatorships of
Panama and Roumania collapsed.

But so much of life appears coincidental
only at times that press upon us the
connections between human events, when a
good part of so-called rationality consists
of keeping these things secret from ourselves, and
making the interpretations along the lines of conventional

Thursday, June 12

Blogs discussed in Business Week
today with a special focus on one of our favorite web sites, *technorati*
There is no easy way to accommodate
pain. But the quicker you stop
registering disgust, outrage and fear, the
quicker it will appear less

To habitually avoid certain steps
because of fear is to begin to
permanently delimit one's freedom of

Nothing sayable goes without saying.

Later (2pm)

"Quieting" the mind, Zen, etc- like
allowing the murky surface (memories) to
settle so you can see to the bottom
of the pool- or "through" it- which
reveals life and currents beneath. The
everyday events plus the aroused memories
connected with these events forms
a swampy surface which must be cleared
away routinely almost without thinking,

Before clearing it away, however, you
may want to examine it, or while
letting it clear away.
you can accumulate
those sediments, which, after all, are part
of that whole glimpse.

Time is a test, in the above sense, but
in others too. In this sense, if "life" and "time"
follow any pattern, they resemble
a series of tests or examinations. Even the
magazines "Life" and "Time" resemble test
results. "Experiments were conducted in the field,
and here are the results."
I write poetry using the same principle, only
the scale involved is not years, but an entire
life, or, life itself and time itself, as
"far as I can see."


In all of that (the anticipated theft of the
car, the argument, the fever blister) what was
taking place was the (manic) resistance- or
emotional denial- to the taking place of the
end of summer (symbolized by the end of August).

Does ritual reduce acting out by offering
a point of acknowledgement? (meaning temporal

Circumstances (in life) are like the wind or
rain in weather.

This morning- or almost exactly at noon
(the half-way point between the day or night)-
I thought that maybe there is a third
alternative besides the categories "objective"
and "subjective." We now have only the
term "intuitive" which is quickly equated
with the vague.

We can only avoid something "taking place"
by having something else take place. ("Take place"
is a physical image for a temporal event).

-If the objective (day) is to be distinguished
from the subjective (night)-

We now have a third person ( a judge) in place of
a third category - "objective/subjective"

The analyst offers him or herself as
the representative of this "third category" The
analyst is the agency of the not-yet-known,
already existent and unconsciously denied
truth. Baudelaire acknowledged this in the form of

Art calls forth the silent adherent. Psychoanalysis
calls forth the verbal adherent. Politics
calls forth the acting adherent.


I am like a whittler whittling away
at something. I am a good whittler, in
that what shows in relief is usually taken
as a sign for a direction toward what
is underlying.

You find out the nature of things by
touching them.

Denial provides shelter at the cost of
numbing response to everything that surrounds
what is being denied.

I am waiting, like a whittler,
but I am not "Waiting for Godot."
I am waiting for x.

I've built a shelter for my waiting
out of pages, out of silence.


How kind time, even history, is to those that love.

Time and history are kind to those that love.

From thought to history in 12 seconds.
categories shrink
shrink categories
shy sex
reduce recline residence
lose blues

Being unable to wait is what brings about the
embarrassing numbers- the world via dissolution
returns with death to oppose this conception of reality itself as
a victim of objectivity.
Objectivity, like subjectivity, is temporary
(I can claim this appropriation of myself for the world's purposes as an injury-)


This side/that side
this side of this one
that side of that one

with love there are spills, squaws

gulls squawk


Am I taking secret pride in *not* writing?
The answer is yes. The pride consists in
knowing that to refuse expression encourages
a state of independence from the dominion
of definitiveness. The strength I derive
from this sense of independence is pleasurable and
feels healthy. This is the opposite of
Davies' "quitting writing because your life
is not going well."

Writing eventually pushes you into a
corner in the sense that yhou get cornered
by your own defintions.

Reading can similarly screen
out feelings of experiential autonomy.
The reader is
enticed to search for a characterization
of reading which corresponds with her
experience- The intoxication of this hide-
and-go seek game can even make her
forget that nothing can correspond to her
own experience more than her own

Quickly, this definition also
erodes, i.e., company is its own best
company, the differences between good for and
good with, 1890=1967, the era of nuance.
1967- the era of fact.

All discoveries have to do with freedoms.

If you can't remember the last time you
lied to yourself successfully or unsuccessfully,
you probably won't understand or remember
this sentence very long.

"Head to the Hills!"


Too much exertion means its an old
ritual, done too many times before to still
have much zing.


The Argument

(The lovers have had an argument.
She and he are divided. She has
gone to stay with her mother. He
addresses her, their friends, his friends,
his family, her family,
their ancestors, his nation, the cosmos.)

This evening I must rest
I can't believe we were so
sharp with each other, I mean
I didn't realize we had become
so angry, so embittered. I
guess I'm naive, I thought I was
being patient, but I see now I
was wrong.

Wednesday, June 11

7/17/01 (Cont'd)

This too, is about memory.
They replicate themselves,
doubling into twins. Exact,
but still a replica. You
can hear the aura, we
all copied that. "Mechanical
reproduction" I copy that.
Someone is justa-exposed.
Out at the edge of the
Done only once,
announcing a career.
Permission given-
it's all a script for
a movie. By the
time you make it, the
movie has caught up
with you by being
predicted. The thought is
the thing, as Seth said
"You create your own
reality." By leaving
nothing out, everything is
forgiven. This is the
stretegy of the father-
confessor and the automatic
writer alike. Standing
quiet and waiting for me
to announce whether to
go left, or right, downstage
or upstage? Completes
the lexicon of a legion
of voices, spacing
themselves out geographically
to hear themselves
thingk. the path of a
career, divisions in
space-time. No rest for
the weary or the unrelenting.
The sadness in the spaces
between the cracks. Give
pleasure a name.

Continuity takes itself in
stride. How many voices
in the chorus? Again, spread
out in light and shade,
unfurling like a cloud
or a flag.

By now, you've followed
all my clues and have
found out that all this
time I've been tracking
*you,* dear reader. In
your thoughts I'll hear all
my echoes before I've
even thought them. You're
constantly ahead of me,
you've already decided
before i've begun.

I apologize, that was
unfair. Can we still be
friends? Acquaintances,
anyway? I wasn't
really watching you, just
listening, as always,
for particulars. And then
we'll go our own ways.
7/17/01 (Cont'd)

Always and again, feeling
your way into things. They
linger, they tango, they
thank you, they disregard,
they understand. What does
it look like? Like
you don't know your
own size, the feel of
things? You have to
get the measure of
the pleasure. Feet
on the ground, head
in the air.
Who said that?
What is the sound of
"Mayday, mayday, may
day." So they say. Does
what helps, sound good?
Action at a distance
in time. At all events.
At all events captured
some. *Traces afterwards*
Sounds like what? "Might
have *been* the water" is
what Toni said.

Estimates, roughing out
the design captures some.
Listening to something not said
yet is an echo from
somewhere else.
I still can't remember the
name of the disguise, its
title. Secrets suffice. I can
(can't) explain it.
Officially, anyway. There are
exams to take, I can tell
you that much. Monotonous
study, tedious accumulation
of details. A map. Surrounding
all the dishonesty, expressing
the fakes. Someone had to
be disturbed or confused. Loitering
between the sun and the
Shadows.Making believe,
imagining, pretending. "He's
pretentious," that
one. "Anybody can do that."

Tuesday, June 10

We did it! We made a Crush List! Ok, Ok, we did link to Amanda's site first, but it's a start! Thanks Amanda. We love -Ironstone Whirlygig-!

Amanda's Poetic Crush List
June 9, 2003
First Edition

10. Jim Behrle
9. Tim Peterson
8. AaronTieger
7. Mark Lamoureux
6. Dan Bouchard
5. Nick Piombino
4. Chris Rizzo
3. Christina Strong
2. Gerrit Lansing
1. Ed Barrett

Here's lookin' at YOU, Rutabaga

Anything revealed behind
a smokescreen. The world
is enough and is filled
with time. If it is
running out of the
other side of the
question. Which invariably
answers itself, the
sound of a screaming
jet forever in my ears.
The distance, a
makeover was a series
of suggestions soon to
be passé. They think
and earn themselves a
piece of learning. Sky
is a kind of trite
incomprehensibility. There
is nothing ordinary
about it. Follows suit.
Makeshift attitudes
suffice. Nearing the
perpetuator eventually.
The words translate
themselves. Each has
a face. Each face
has its ludicrous
side and is also
conspicuously variable:- in
the time it takes to change
pens all facts have been
replaced. Alteration is a
way of forgetting. This is
how each is disguised
but in the light of day
you can recognize a
face and its changing
expression. "If a fool
would persist in his
folly he would be wise."
(Blake). Don't forget to send one
to Joan (of ellipsis)
Retallack. Ain't it the truth?
Work just creates more work.
Don't be so upset by the
fact that the trickster
makes ample use of
decoys (the kind of
military garb that uses
this). The trail leads us
right to the entrance.
The door is the cover to
a dictionary. Follow the
faces one to the other
like a sleuth. The
reader is the suspect
in this tale of intrigue,
betrayal and mistrust.
But even for perhaps particularly
the violence is nuanced.
To have method in
your madness you must
have madness to your
method. Time is a
suspect too, as are
almost all ideologies.
They had their dreamers
too. If you wait for you whole
lifetime, you will finally
do it, but you may
not be able to match
the outcome with
the original intention.
As the reader,
you are the casting
director, not just the
projectionist. All's fair
in aphorisms and lies. I'm
not Haydn so come and
get me. Seventeen and forty-

What an atrocious understanding
that listens without wit.


When we love something one of the
earliest things we want to do with
it is to destroy it. This is usually
done among civilized people by means
of a ritualistic performance, whether in
a theatre or the living room (the most
local theatre). In fact, quite civilized
people have been known to accidentally
(and not so accidentally) do all
forms of destruction of their neighbors-
a fact which is also ritualistically
announced and theatrically recreated
almost continuously. It is all nothing
more than the grand opera of love,
which accords itself a very unhealthy
measure of sheer, exuberant destructiveness.
Is this the glee which arises in seeing
a symbol of life convincingly portrayed
to our always disbelieving psyches?
Isn't the by-product of such
gladness the happy pat on the back
which sends our friend reeling across
the floor, the event reproducing itself
later as a backache?


"The flesh is tired and I've read
all the books." (Mallarme). Where
does that illusion come from that when
you're reading a good book, and just
about to finish it- that the whole
business- reading, writing, "life" (as we
"think" of it)- seems vindicated- and all
of them- the writings and the book- seem
worthwhile? Good books all applaud
each other while making the reader feel
quite alarmed and reassured to be
here where all this is


Don't worry, Sam, you chose the
waiting. Did you forget to
mention the voluptuous pleasures of
those extended preludes? At such
moments you are aware
(the cat called it exaltation)
of the shape of the whole poem-
the entire future poem- at a glance.
Everything hangs in suspension. You
are no longer so abruptly removed
from your earlier work.

The question, as always , is where
is the motivation? What is to be the
ambience, what is the reader to do
with it (another might say, what has
the reader to do with it). Yes, she has been
called the double, an accomplice, and
at times does function as a spy.
She has taken the time to include
you, so better shave, shower, brush
your hair and be rested, and have an
engaging attitude. In fact, now is the
time to remind you that you spent
the best part of the day yesterday
walking the New York streets enjoying
a rare more or less humidity
free day. It can be exhausting,
even to roam around
a few bookstores and fight a kind
of heat that makes life's purpose
be reduced to a form of escape.
My friend reminded me that it is
always war out here- so if
there's no time to forget it now
there never will be.

So, Sam, never torture yourself
about endlessly sustaining the
idle gait which takes you on walks near
the Muse's approving gaze so really
you can always remember
the last- and anticipate the
next rendezvous so much more enjoyably
if you learn to accept some hours
filled with questions about
your beloved. Yes, I know you
can't remember the last time she
smiled towards you- I remember she
leaves with an elegant flourish
whenever she wants to. No sense
begging the moon or clouds or even
the trustworthy sun to listen to
her name. They won't answer you,
but will only stare out at you in
commiserating silence. I remember
that you told me that she tricked
you into believing that by simply
chanting the names of the gods or
some Heraclites proverb about long ago dried
up rivers in the ancient sun you would
stand recognized. Oh, Sam, this
was no lie, you fooled yourself.
You think you are alone and
can prove it, but you're not.
You think you don't know the
words of your poem but you say
them every morning as you button
your shirt, tighten your belt. take your
wallet and keys and lunge for the
door. You're no slave- and yet you
are because you insist on equating
feeling with words like "solitude"-
let's face it, Sam, you are who you
are because you've known what *not* to
say- and how loud to say what
you must- and to grant the willing
questioner a sincere
smile, a quick goodbye- and a
few needed moments to themselves.


Remember that there are a few
pages which are in this time period
in the bound notebooks (small white
ones and blue abstract patterns).Get a
knife and cut these out and make a separate notebook.

Monday, June 9


Computers make it very clear- that
everything in life can be reduced to
a simple yes or no. Humans have
never stood for this. After centuries
of solemn obedience to the rules of language, we
created the yes that is no and the
no that is yes.
The linguistic birth of irony.

What makes a bit of "prose" into
"a poem." A concentrated form of
experience can be encapsulated
within the melodic possibilities of a single

We realize that these utterances
are a deft avoidance of the simple fact
that we are continuously waiting-
that is awaiting the tingles of creation. For years I
died, I was mortified in the disturbance of such waiting. I wrote and tore up
hundreds of poems, banged my fist against
a table, much as a lover, disappointed
that her partner does not meet her ideal
conception of a suitor, saturates herself
in martyred pathos for the
ironic disappointment of "unfulfilling love."
I criticized myself and reviled myself.
I mocked the poems themselves in other
poems, seeing their faces pass by me
in awful disappointment- that once it
had sailed long and hard in the
deep-sea currents of my enthusiasms. Now
if is an abandoned vessel, upon which
I heap my occasional and distracted scorn.

hurry, to slur. Not
enough time to compose
a vast lie only time
to contrive loitering
for a time around an
opening. Critics are needed
to differentiate, a
force for change. Launches
an unlistenable diatribe
(all hell breaks loose
in a whisper). to
embed, or notice. That
was directly autobiographical,
a misstatement. Never
enough of anything,
let alone appreciation,
in quotes. Had preserved
a space to introduce
an Underwood (underwouldn't)
can resist a pun, is
fun. Outside Atlantic.
Atlantic City is a code.
The waves create a
mystique. I'm (plausible).
They (some) separate themselves.
Is a kind of scrolling
web sites and reverse, play
it again Sam Daniels. Whose
middle age? A juxtaposition
an ascension. Capitalize
on want, gesturing change.
A industry, industrious at
far and by repetition. This
copy (un(scrolls forward
and backwards in reverse.
The min(ed) uncovers
itself retro progressively
curling up. inside its
travesties. Put that on
hold. Transvestites,
reader and writer,
dressing, addressing, undressing,
progressing (a dirty word).
Try not to get annoyed,
listening for mistakes
(resonances). Another
name for memories.
Yes, this was to be
recognized as a kind
of automatic manufacture
as well. Phrases
that warm, a
pestilence to cool.
Out of Africa, a
way of effacing lack
of reciprocity, in
conversation, polylogue
or monologue,
*not* with a standing.
Fatuous, fractions,
reflections, confessions.
Aspects of the not so novel.
What else is new? Speaking
in sponge, an entire
poetics created out of
a perverse subversion of
revision. Reveals universal
reversions. Reviling, reveling,
revealing. Something understood
is tucked between, is stuffed
within, tied in , sandwiched
in the corners. Sven
struggles -I don't know him.
What am I? "Freudian
Solipsism’s" a makeshift
enterprise in N. This slips.
Out of the- murky, foggy,
cadences. Stop and another
word will start. To be
continued like a ladder,
"take me to your ladder,
I'll see your leader later,"
latitudes, attitudes, rain.

Sunday, June 8

A few weeks ago, in shameless imitation of the legendary Jim Behrle crush list -fait accompli- established our bloglink crush list. Due to poplular demand (one delighted blogger wrote us a note!) we have decided to continue this regular feature. Here are our bloglink ))))))))))HOT((((((((BLOG)))))))))) crush list winners for this week!!!!!!!

Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church

Ruminate...Chris Lott
Word Placement...Clayton A. Couch

Notes to Poetry...Steve Evans

~Aimee Nezhukumatathil's gila monster~*

Ptarmigan...Alan de Niro

Bellona Times...Ray Davis
Swimming for Dummies...Tanya Brolaski

Yoo Doo Right...Mike County

Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook

Here are our previous crush link favorites. We love these blogs.We read them every chance we get!!!!

Chimera Song Mosaic...Deborah Wardlaw Pattillo

The Jetty...Cassie Lewis..

double visions of Johanna

No Starting Point...Emma Barnes

abolone..Li Bloom

Technorati Cosmos

Mike Snider's Formal Blog

Never Neutral...Ernesto Priego

We Write To Taste Life Twice...Crystal King

The Wily Filipino...Benito M. Vergara, Jr.

Mysterium...Carlos Arribas

Arm Sasser...Carl Annarummo

The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze

Process Documents...Ryan Firzpatrick

Love's Last Gasps...Eileen Tabios' Poem Journal

Porthole Redux ....Catherine Meng
Mr.Tong Bliss' Journal...Joe Massey

Human Verb...Noah Eli Gordon

tex files...Chris Murray


Confirmation of experience is intertwined with the experience of identity. If my perceptions are not confirmed by others, I may doubt the organizing matrix itself (the self).This is partly why I have posited the use of the concept of identity to signify the part of the self that is less available for interaction. It may be speculated that our sense of the creative individual being a more powerful "identity" has to do with such a person more closely connecting the flow of experience with the "non-confirmed" identity. Under ordinary circumstances the two functions, that of confirmation of perceptions and the originating of perceptions are split.

Don't forget the quote on Japanese production.


*Syntactical forms*- *models of mind*-

To ask where I fit in is to ask, where do my thoughts fit in? I look out upon the urban landscape. The vertical and the horizontal forms seem to box in my thoughts. Syntactical forms, models of mind. Micro-intervals, macro-intervals. I've tried to box in my thoughts, give them a form, take the fragmentary insights and build them into a whole.


Roll A-
Sam, collage photos, close-up
N Truro of sand
Take heart, take heed, look within, look without. We shuttle back and forth, searching for a unifying constant, for the place where the self fits in.

If the mind goes elsewhere, where am I but to go with it?


The psychological issue of asking. Why we don't ask-
what makes us ask?

By returning meaning to its primary forms such as letters
we unearth the exact domain which constitutes the heart.

The other side of not asking is the right to refuse,
which is to choose, which ultimately relates to the aesthetic,
discriminating function. The dimensions "when" and "where"
become the obsessive "if," that is, if there is "if"
then there is "if not" and a story begins which
is transformed into the measurement of time.


Ron Silliman- my writing=my writing-
Resembles Derrida's "trace" except that
this presentation is tautological and
paradoxically pragmatic.


If the quest is a question
then the question is a quest.

Things resting in their place.
trying too hard to understand
something that may not
be worth it. The effort of
understanding this issue is often one
of an appropriate time or place.

The process in and of and
for itself.

A question of where and how to
let thoughts fit in comfortably.

What opens it up and
what closes it. What is an
infringement on what. With a
bang or a whimper. Like a
conversation or a dialogue.
Things feed into it or
don't. Otherwise, they rest.
Noticing the small detail.
Richard Tuttle said something
about optimism. The rage,
the fury .Let it slide.
They devote themselves. A
talon. Swept in quotes.
Don't make the difficult
impossible. Who says you
can't. Slides in.

Elaboration. At least this
one. They corner it, splicing
the vastness. Or a blessing
in disguise, a bless in
disguise takes time. After
the fact. More ways than
"in more ways than one."
They should. Or should
they? Even a reverse
is more than one thing,
getting upon and making
(creating) them in disguise.
Singing or (sing-ing) singing a planet.
How to pronounce it-
who leads?- or make
something to understand.
Under a narrowing...
tendency. Or can make
it up (create with) by
and for. At last, at

Quarters, folded.
A siren- attention to the
police. Cleaning it up,
clearing it up.. They
cause, or create a
tendency, a destiny, a
destination. It was, to
someone cleared it up. Devil's
erasing the crime, the comma
a copy, a retroforce in
will. Stay alive. Can
measure. Up to a force,
another kind of connective.
Just start and don't stop.
Conjunctions, ampersands,
a full stop. the rhythmic
gestation. Land, ahoy.
Name of a detective,
reflection of a game. The
narrative stretches in.
So between, alright of
(for)a game. Evidence,
or shards, applause or a
cause, sandwiched between
the present and the past.
Pieces of evidence to lead
One on, on, from writer to
reader. Under suspicion,
under assumption-some
pressure, not too much
or too little. A slight
bit of permission.