Distribution Automatique

Saturday, April 3

notebook (poem, untitled): 1990

All's well that ends well.
This story has a thousand endings.
One is narrowed into a corner.
Another funnels itself out into the sun.
The thought. Somehow, the trail leading
To the word. In the exactitude...
You were skipping. There were devices.
It was even, evening, Eve. It was loud.
It was aloud, it was allowed. It was a.
There were diaries. These tunnel into also.
This was listening. And if not, what.
Now coming into the suspense. Possible to start
From the need. Possible to start from the
Need to hear. Possible to start out from
The need to hear. Possible to hear.
Possible once. The thought...the trial leading
To the crime. If you could specify
This once. In a sense, leading
Backwards, or weaving the two together
Shuttling back and forth.
Not so crafty to hide them.
These were displayed with curious care.
Now the bookcase. Now the sudden opening
Of time. Now the amount. Now the
Timetable, the schedule, the instructions.
The ornaments, please. Behind the bookcase.
"Look in the back of my brown slacks.
And one Socony station." To let the stop go,
This is all that was wanted.
All aboard! All a bored who? All
Abroad whatever you wanted done with it.
Whatever you wanted to have done with it.

"Il pleut. Il pleut dans mon couer
Comme il pleut dans la ville."
Il est un memoir.
Il est un memoir d'une histoire
Da beaucoupo des gens.
Now, people are streaming in from everywhere.
There are millions of planets in the solar system.
Come in. Over.

Caught. Caught again. Caught again empty.
This constant interruption for stories.
An lllustration. Perhaps no one's sure.
A story can still exist. Can you say
One? What do you remember about the last one?
Were you only a bystander, or part of the
Event yourself? How would you define the
Difference? Can you supply us with enough
details to convince us you were there?
Can you supply us with enough details to
Convince us you were there?
Can you supply us with enough details to
Convince us you are actually here?
Your name? Occupation? Telephone number?
Social security number? Your religious affiliation?
What is the month of your birth?
Where were your parents born?
Do you have sisters or brothers?
Your current bank references.
Did you vote in the general election?
Are you registered to vote in primaries?
Have you served in the armed forces?
Have you been arrested for a felony?
Married? Single? Divorced?
Do you suscribe to one of the following
Nationallly circulated magazines?

Come in. Come in.
Climate control. Do your hear me?
Yes, I read you. Coming in loud and clear.
Thank you. Over.

The sun. Glossolalia.
Glossolalia of moonlight and sunlight.
Soon light.
The harbor.
Outa here.
Department of Need I Say More?

The politics of social/literary invitation.

Thursday, April 1

The Corpus Callosum {click here}

An occasional journal of armchair musings, by an Ann-Arbor-slightly-left-of-center regular guy who reserves the right to be highly irregular at times. Topics: social commentary, neuroscience, politics, science news. Mission: to develop connections between hard science and social science, using linear thinking and intuition; and to explore the relative merits of spontaneity vs. strategy.
I'm not running away; or maybe I am hiding.
I'm trying to find where you were,
where we were talking, dear blog reader.

So I reached into a suitcase and out fell this:

Notebook: 12/6/80

Observe people working-
suppression of emotion-
concentration on action &
external form-
Like not knowing which
streets- finding by
feeling- a different

Wednesday, March 31

Overwhelmed and not even time
to read beautiful new posts on
The Ingredient {click
or Jonathan's new poem on
Bemsha Swing {click here}

Just grazing over these two blogs
quickly, I'm already feeling better!
Have I mentioned that moving

Today, I'm having a major
pity party. Last night I felt so down
I couldn't even blog. There's a first
time for everything. But this too
will pass, of course.

Didn't even have time to call up
Nada and Gary to try to cheer them
up for missing Nada's reading due
to their both having the stomach flu.
But I've got the moving flu.

"Please be patient. Our sanity will
return in just one moment. We
appreciate your call. Our operators
(our mental functions)
are busy with other callers. Please
hold on and we will be with you as
soon as possible..."

Tuesday, March 30

incertain plume {click here}
is heading east, ringing the changes
on the blogs

Monday, March 29

This moving stuff is where-ing me out! "Where's this, where's that,
did you see where I put this, where the hell is that?"

Sunday, March 28

Seeing the branchy brown trees in the
park across the street soon to spring
to leaves and buds, listening to the
children play in the small schoolyard
on the other side, it occurred to me that
if people realized our job of parenting
didn't end with children, or even other
adults in need at times, it extends to every
growing thing, even every living
thing at times, then life's energies might shift away
from destructiveness and towards growth.
Still Kali has two faces and conflict
never ends.

Nonliving things need care too, and
respond to it (read Ponge).

In any case. Toni's idea from Seth
that "you create your own reality"
is true; it's just that the reality
around us changes isomorphically
with our own transitions; see
*It's A Wonderful Life*. How could
Jimmy Stewart have been so right
wing and come to represent caring
so much in that movie?
While Toni and I are knee deep in boxes,
Shanna Compton's *Brand
New Insects* {click here}
, social fireflies that they are,
are buzzing around everywhere
bringing back glittering bits of poetry news. Flashy!
Jim Behrle {click here}
reads tonight at the Zinc Bar.
Don't know if we can make it- we
have to go back and clean up our
old apartment so the landlords can
do a walk-through tomorrow. Ugh!
Meanwhile Caterina's {click here}
apartment near Vancouver has been invaded,
but Caterina describes it as a conceptual
art piece.
A bouquet of dahlias, dahlings,
from Boynton {click here}
Some new poems on
UMBRellA {click here}
Beautiful, but heartrending,
personal blogging byMark Lamoureux {click here}.