Distribution Automatique

Saturday, November 8

If you like to doodle, you'll love this! {click here}

Thanks, Boynton {click here}!
...Shhhh- it's not official but... it looks
like I'll be reading at Wordsworth Books
in Harvard Square, Cambridge on November 29th at 5pm.
Thanks to Mr. Jim Behrle of The Famous Monkey {click here}

Why save a light?
Too fattening
Unearth delight
Mayan codices
Lorgnette (cards)
Loud voice
It's not about- it is about
Decca records
Billy Holiday
Descending sharps
Read flat
Who said that?
Labels, air shafts, tight waistline,
Precocious martyr- guilt
A sharp
Ice pick
Total the past
Draw a line
Forget your schedule
Endless warfare
Resist arrest- keep silent- advise keys to
anxiety- select political realities- crumpled
roses, bunched paper
Slips by
Alternate- record- repeat- standby
Blastoff- maximum security- countless
murders- bloodthirsty- severs connections easily

Friday, November 7

The Porthole Spyglass Still Focussed On Kierkegaard {click here}

Perhaps there's more on that
page than you think. Your tones
keep ringing in my head like a cell
phone in a movie theatre.
Do you think poetry is some kind
of parlor trick? Do you think the
word "love" is to be bandied about
like the last bastion of a faded technology?
O laser beam of sarcasm why must you infiltrate
every last vestige of Madame Butterfly? Why must all
the best Sonatas be written in the key of irony ? Oh, I'm
bored out of my skull with cascades of brilliantly witty polemical opinions!
Life is becoming more and more like the restroom after the office party at an art magazine.

a cord
a carillon
Save me
Northern lights, purple tights
Mums the word
Change I to inheritance
Tap into sounds of slaves- trombones?-
Answers, hills, a slow pace
(must be pain)
Kills the proud- ach-impossible
Then kiss me
Virgin spills
A shirt- clean
Hustle (missy)
It's the past
Sentence-caught still-
No one's saying anything
-lst, 1st, st., Str., stress
or here abide,a bite
inside (lower)outside (higher)
(again) beside (again)
Fierce streets

A limited number of choices
Feelings say different
Continuous phases suggests melody,
A displaced thought
Nearer, my memory, to thee
Who would it known
Had it appear
A mask
A dome

Thursday, November 6

[fait accompli
is pleased to
the following
event. Don't
miss this


will enact
a mutual

with Q
and A
to follow

this Sunday,
November 9

at the
Zinc Bar
90 West
& Thompson

at 6:37 pm

hosted by Brendan Lorber


Dream state
lesson- something seeps through
and remembered
hardly comprehended
or barely understood
why something (this)
was even started
another text made (it possible)
another text opened the door
words on paper
the feelings, thoughts, ideas
stain the paper
a conversation with myself
coming through
a shock quickly erased
barely probable
no one bumped into me
something I thought or felt
pushed its way out of me
letting it come though

The fantasy of newness- and
the need to fend off the memories
of the parents.

Fantasies inherent in denial;
ie.- "This is not happening"- when
it is.

Wednesday, November 5

This just in and where've I been?
Don't ask.

Bellona Times(Ray Davis)

The poetry of murder helped instigate the murder of poetry.

Looking for the root, I forgot the sun.

A poetics that allows a poem
to begin with any word or with
no words at all. This is no
simple democracy of experience
or call for "automatic writing"
This is the complete abandonment
of any kind of privilaged experience.
Chance need not play the role of
leveller, a kind of yardstick to compare
one kind of observation with
another. That there isn't
(won't be for long) one absolute
means of measure or comparison
leads not to a benign or complacent
recognition of the relativism of
values, but to a conceptual glimpse
into the intrinsic ferment underlying
reality. A recognition, sometimes
ectastic, sometimes terrifying,
sometimes simply dreary, that actuality
*is* revolution, or *actuality* is revolution.

I can describe no greater pleasure than
to be a poet and neglect writing the poem. To
leave them all implied, unstated,
potential for me is a kind
of rapture. You will think, no doubt
that this is a cover-up
for an impoverished imagination,
and though this could even
be true, it doesn't matter. Because,
with the poem, as with a lover, it is
the intent that counts- because no
single act could ever begin to
convince- but the steady evidence
of *intent* to love finally soothes even
the most delicate and subtle types
of romantic anguish. Yes, it is
because I love the possible poem
and the already existing ones so
much that I proudly announce my
indifference to the one I could try to
create right now, if I wished.
And still the potential poem stays by and
awaits me, torturing me with its
seductive air of complicity, but
its final reluctance to give in to
me completely and passionately, with
its total attention and its generosity
of response. No, this is not to
be not because the poem refuses
me, but because I refuse it. I play
hard to et, giving my complete
atttention to other arts like
music, or visual art, or even
to even-tempered science, which is
so strong, but so
often lacking in poetry's delicacy and charm.
But, then again, with the poem
I know what will happen
soon, no matter what I do.
No matter how I start, whether
i amble by nonchalantly, with
an air of savoir-faire, or
throw myself at it intently
with a look of mildly desperate
hope. A cloud will catch my eye,
moving quickly across a blue horizon,
or a bit of music or a child'
mischievous smile will hit
me head on and I'll be gone.

Tuesday, November 4



This poem refuses any allegiance
to literary expectations. There may
be no cold at all, in fact, or
reference to snow or cold. Newness,
as a thing in itself, beginnings,
vows, numbers might also have little
substantive relevance. It is so confining to
be forced to couch the poem's
context within a conventional set of
given correspondances. All of this is made clear
in the first few lines.

Time's target is refusal
Bared to withdraw from expectations
Presented as the primary agent
The frame becomes the whole picture.

To be new, here , is to recognize
some discomfort. It is winter's warmth,
its succor, which is being regarded.


Appendix 1 Some Very Early Poems

The congregation is convened and
after the spoken portion of the service
is over those present are asked to
rise and sing together. They
are directed to a hymn in their
hymn books having to do with
their God (who was a living god)
as a youth. As a youth this god
was a beautiful young girl. Everywhere
she went people took notice of her.

A shining glimmer
On crystal water
She danced and spun
Above blue waves

Now we see this girl as a young woman
She is courted by countless young men
Who beg to have even a few moments with
her. She notices this less and less however
as she beomes preoccupied with her visions.
These visions are of terrible events:
flood, fires, famines, wars, great
epidemics and terrible
social disasters. She falls into
constant reveries about the
power of prayer to avert these things.

She dreamt her wish
To end all pain
Turning to her visions
Again and again

One day we see her walking with her
sister. An earnest young man approaches
her and asked for a moment of her time.
She consents and looks into his gaze.
Some heaviness of heart immediately
drops away within her. This
man becomes her lover and later her
husband. They are contented together.

Years go by and they have no children.
This is not of great concern to them
because they are satisfied with each
other. One day the husband has to travel
by horseback on a long journey. We see
her near his horse bidding him goodbye.
She is afraid and again turns to prayer.
She had not prayed like this for a
long time. This hymn is of her visions:

From far in time
The hurt draws near
To cover and increase our fear
But when the truth can once be told
Courage will come to warm this cold.

Word comes that her husband has been
enlisted in the army. He is fighting on a
dangerous front. That night she has a
dream that a Spirit comes to her and
whispers the magic words of peace. When
she awakens she realizes she has
to somehow communicate these words to
the world.

She travels all over the kingdom.
People come from far away parts of
the country to hear her. More and more
are convinced of the truth and power
of her ideas which are communicated
in simple songs accompanied on her

Parts of the populace take her for
a transcendent spirit. A movement
grows to create a universal

One night she is preparing a
song and the word is delivered that
her husband has been hurt & is going
to return to her. That night he is
brought to hear her sing. Later he has
a dream that her spirit has been transformed into
a rising tide of peace which
covers the world.

His wounds heal and they return to
their former lives. However, her songs
have become part of a growing
belief that a part of her spirit has
become personified in these songs, which
can somehow lead them all to peace
and prosperity.


Te Deum
Te Deus


Some myths can be vaguely remembered
but not directly referred to.

No one knows why what is remembered is
remembered. Comprehension lost.

Monday, November 3

Bill Marsh (Dead Letter Game)
-in from San Diego- and I just spent a good
part of the weekend talking about-
guess what? Starts with a b and
ends with a g and rhymes with
logging and flogging. Anyway,
more on that later. By the
way, well-balanced, thoughtful
man that he is, he found lots
of time to talk with Toni about
art, so she took the three of us
on one of her famous
brief tours of the Metropolitan
Museum, including the wonderful
Philip Guston show- a "must see."

Bill Marsh read at the Bowery Poetry
Club on Saturday. He read from
a collaboration he did with Steve
Carll based on the Tao Te Ching. It
is an inspired work and Bill is an
excellent reader. A number of others
read (they are listed on
my sidebar to the left)
including Jen Hofer, John
Wilkinson, Prageeta
Sharma (who was introduced by
Lisa Jarnot) and Daniel
Bouchard. Let me tell you, Subpress
makes beautiful books (every one
of them sport mysteriously attractive
covers, by the way) and I bought
a stack of 'em (discounted for the
event, of course). My booty included:
*a day in the life of p.* by kari
edwards, a book I have been looking
forward to reading for a long time-
I am long familiar with kari edwards'
writing from the Suny/Buffalo poetics list.
I've already read parts of the book
and I like it a lot. For some reason
it reminds me of Valery's *M Teste*.
Terrific. I enjoyed hearing John
Wilkinson read who is from the UK
and who introduced his reading
by saying it would be hard to
recreate his punk rock attitude
from the 70's. As a reader of
-fait accompli- you might know
how I enjoyed hearing this bit
of time travel- so I purchased
his "Oort's Cloud."...
Lucky me, with Lisa Jarnot sitting
right there to request a discount for me,
I scored - I am just noticing at this
moment-a signed (!) copy of her new CD
*Ring of Fire* with vocals by Lisa
Jarnot, accompanied by
musicians Jermiah Hosea
Landess, Eric Eigner, Ivan Katz and
Kirk Douglas. (Imj67@hotmail.com)...

Even though I had one moment
between readings as Jen Hofer
was leaving I managed to introduce
myself to her.
No time to get her to sign her
book *Slide Rule*:, which includes
a number of lettered "corporeal manifestos":
"Things are not o.k." By means of
a spontaneous swap I am also now
the proud owner of a a copy of
Daniel Bouchard's *Diminutive Revolutions*.
This book contains his unforgettable,
and perhaps to some, unforgiveable
"I make a pact with you, venerable LangPoets-
I have studied your works long enough.
I look back on you as an honorable bunch
Laying new asphalt over old roads."
Wow! That oughta set a few hearts
thumping, including my own. Also,
Dan Bouchard offered me a copy of his mag
*The Poker* (Fall 2003) which contains
a review of Anselm Berrigan's *Zero Star Hotel*,
work by Alan Davies and
an exciting, if paradox-studded interview
with the inCOMParable Kevin Davies:

Marcella Durand: Great. Your poetry
makes me happy.

Kevin Davies: What, are you nuts? But
I'm glad to hear that. I was just over at
a friend's house listening to Kenneth
Koch and Allen Ginsberg improvising a
ballad. Have you heard that? That made
me feel something approaching *happy*
in a normal person.


This town was crammed
with poets *and* bloggers this
weekend. I hear
Eileen Tabios and
Arthur Sze had
a fine event in Manhattan
at around the same
time as the BPC events
this Saturday. All kinds
of marathons around

(via Venepoetics (Guillermo Parra))

Sunday, November 2

Check it out- A piece of text of "Zazie at the metrostation" written by Raymond Queneau:
Zazie's Biography. Zazie is a terrific
surrealist whose website is well worth studying:Zazie's Zone
Coincidence of The Day Dep't

While Shanna Compton
of Brand New Insects
(who I know only from her blog, by the way)
was in her workshop with Harry Matthews,
I was at a poetry reading at the Bowery
Poetry Club talking with Lytle Shaw during
a break. Somehow we got to talking about
blogging, and writing journals and
Harry Matthews' name came up and
Lytle recommended Matthews' book
*The Journalist* and I enthused about his book
*20 Lines a Day*
which is one of my all time favorites.

I hope Shanna Compton
will tell us more about her
weekend workshop with
Harry Matthews and tell us
about some of the exercises
Matthews recommended.