Distribution Automatique

Monday, June 2


The first thought *was not* don't watch the words, watch the feelings. Philosopher yes, literature no, I was walking down the block and thought, photography will be the way I'll do it. But the first thought was, that the last thought is really what's behind the first thought, I reduced a little bit before something really happened that it was all happening because I already knew something was about to happen. Meaning, I *knew* it, insert paragraph a. Pages of notes, hundreds of examples, hundreds of kinds of sentences. Insert December 10th into the text.

I still can't decide, I'm not sure if it's done. As a poet I don't have to, I can be having as many conversations as I want to, but if I'm going to say it infinite numbers of times, at least I ought to say it. If I regard you as coming into the room like a magician, that's a terrible image, and why? What part do you have in this, accused, accuser, bad tear, indeed. How is anybody going to write their way out of "hear" by not naming names. How is anybody going to listen to this, is the end. So, schnook, put it in the beginning, don't get testy out there, moon, starts and planets indeed, we were always talking about each other. I was about to add, nice little bit of historicity there, as if, like chums, we both knew it all along.

Context is seeing. If X=X, then X=X. See it, again. Intermittant, spasmodic. Make a decision. As vague as the world is, there's something inside. The opposite. Seeing it as we do, we look there. The media is the message, have a heart. Taken easily, moving back among, uneasy strategies, uneasy savages, the something is bright. Admit it, you don't know everything. Go ahead, hit me, say it, by now we're uneasy with each other. Anyway, so much time having gone by and easy at the same time. So much feeling, it's not incidental. At first I hold back, hiding everything, and little by litte. Art should be talked to, implying, silly man, that you should hear something, not *say* something. Big deal, that's just another commercial, I could say anything; when he sings, he's afraid to eat and when he eats he's afraid to speak, etc, etc, I could call this that, etc., etc., but this would be seen; perhaps, as an aside, a new way of doing my homework such that this follows this and that that. 8th street and 2cd Avenue, of course, Astor Place a thousand times if I've seen it once. Forgive me, there for a haircut (Paul McGregor's, Astor Haircutters). What's in a name, that anything could be as sweel as sweet as your cute little feet, sexist pig. A writer conducts and the orchestra reads, note by reed, strings by reed. Applause!