Distribution Automatique

Saturday, September 20

"Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers
and that which is remembered."

Marcus Aurelius
If you're in New York, go see *The American Effect* show at the Whitney (E.75th St. and Madison, Manhattan).Go soon, as it closes October 12th. It's free after 6 p.m. on Friday, by the way. There is much to see there right now (including the wondrous Sarah Sze installation in the basement.)

As you enter *The American Effect* the first piece you see is an installation by Gilles Barbier (by the way, he was born in 1965 in Port-Villa, Vanatu, but lives in Marseille). In this piece, many of the US comic book Superheroes rest in a nursing home. Cat Woman naps quietly in a chair next to the Hulk who is sleeping in a wheelchair as they sit in front of a movie on tv. 50's rock'n roll songs play gently in the background, to the sound of it, on a tinny record player. Captain America reclines on a gurney attached to an I.V., Plastic Man sits reading at a desk, but his limbs appear flacid, while Wonder Woman, who is the only one left standing, though perhaps not much longer, looks on.

Many excellent videos and films are to be seen (get the schedule of *The American Effect Documentary Program*j, includes films by Chantal Ackerman, Stephanie Black, The Builders Association, Anita W. Chang, Gail Dolgin, Vicente Franco, Veli Grano, Marlo Poras, Sandeep Ray, Sherine Salama, Heiner Stadler, JT Orinne Takago and Hye Jung Park.

Check out one of the best projected pieces, by Young-Hae Chang and Mark Voge, originally made for the internet, with a terrific sound track(!) may be seen (and heard) at this site:

(click here):Dakota
��This just in from tex files...Chris Murray:

Ms. Houlihan: Because your ways with words are so irresponsible and offensive, you are not anyone I want a dialogue with.

chris at 6:44 PM
(Friday, September 19)

Check me out, seeking shelter
from the storm
with Nada and Gary on

The Jim Side

plus the New Brutalists,
The Surf Poetry Collaborative,
Julia and her daddy
Jonathan Mayhew,

and the slaying of Darth Vader Houlihan!
c. 1976

As schemes, of critics, moves ,
money, his corporative skills,
banker, margin, map.
I do it (writing)
but I like to hunger
( a French pastry),
condition of honestly gobbling
the condition of
there being
“nothing else”
but the vast planets swinging
you need the feeling
of your imagination—
it might as well be any day—
this one
Don Juan
erases your history—
this page—
several nights alone—
moments of loneliness—
one project—
Louise: “I'll do something about your form.”
microcosm/ macrocosm/ narcissism/ reverie.

Who is thus
not learning
still to speak,
whose words are money,
love subtracted
from the third aspect.

We designed a topical space,
sandy shelf, tropical
now when to stop,
where follows
no listener
the night determined
from the part of the object,
the shelf.
Complicated but unfinished,
it suggested
the frightened posture
of a thinker who
in one day knows
how to be listened to,
listening, silent,
a celebration of a minor change
followed now by a hushed counterpoint
(remember?) which announces the eruption.

Out of an utterance of letters
it decrees a vast off-center point
of origin
of energy.
As “hurried” graces an afterthought
(Tzara, speed),
a particular life style,
to a canvas of sun,

“you” might have said
an example of
might be an allusion
(hiding “apologizing”),
turning language
around premeditated
thought, afterthought,
intentionally documented.

As several, the article
of them
said about that
object earlier,
novel, reference,
it moved,
was painted in a journal
(date, journal).
That was all sun on this map.
The music accompanying
the first part
of the consecutive order
of sentences.

Corporations, collaborate.
The personality you used to say frequently—
but you never would say “you”,
remember that.
As a turned around to think about where
to start whispering the sentence in your ear,
the choices were not always arbitrary,
or Egyptian. But what.
So equals aesthetic.
I thought they were asking for
dense as accordion
practicing watchful,
full, frozen, tense,
delicate, accurate.

You remember another year,
of more of that,
color of close encounters of
how you get around prescriptions
ooops I maybe meant
around the wrong alley
echo of which one had heard it
before Biafra,

Unless someone (Saturn)
actually is visible in trees
(like beating a stick inside a garbage can in the Bronx at night, fish)
just more hopes of the same,
some in a whiny voice.

It was ticklish just like that
but exact,
a long list disappearing
in the minute particular memos,
in Poe's slippery dreams,
the substitute
in ordinary graceful fugues,
the calendar of twos,
a real favorite
I was just thinking
I started writing
of a name
right now

Speaking of galaxy,
what was that
all afternoon
as she
brushed her hair.

Breath, you'd think
but habit
and the same one long face,
pallid, bored, lips parted
intrudes with
“Avast! ...
in the neighborhood
of whimsical skills
walls can be whispered.”

"I have a confidence in my understanding
of formal aesthetics and I don't want to
be aware of it or make that my problem.
That is not the problem. Those things are
solvable. I solved them beautifully. What makes
a tight circle or a tight little square box more
of an intellectual statement than something
done emotionally, I don't know. Art is an essence,
a center. I am interested in solving an unknown
factor of art and an unknown factor of life. My
life and art have not been separated. They have
been together."

Eva Hesse- from a 1970 interview
from *Eva Hesse* by Lucy Lippard

Friday, September 19

"For a long time I have not been writing letters, my dear
friend Alexander Victorovich, neither to you, nor to anyone
else. The chief reason lies in my weakness, which keeps me
lying down all the time. This is my yearly spring state. I lie on
my back and even read only occasionally. Also I cannot com-
pose. This is the way it usually goes until I go to the country,
where I quickly recover and begin to work. I am dreaming
about my departure. I did not thank you for your congratula-
tions for my birthday. I was touched that you remembered.
Also I did not tell you of my impression of the first per-
formance of my symphony. I am going to do this now, though
itis still diffucult for me since I cannot comprehend it myself.
One thing is true, that I am indifferent to my failure, that I
am not discouraged by the abuse of the newspapers, but that I
am deeply grieved and very upset by the fact tha the sym-
phony, which I loved and still do, displeased me from the first

(of the first performance of his First Symphony, March 15, 1897)

"It was the most agonizing hour of my life," he said later.

from *Rachmaninoff* Victor I. Seroff, 1950
7-11 October (1975)/ Kansas City

"Rilke seminar at Kansas City. I gave a poetry reading, also a discussion
about literature and politics, also took a class on Eliot and Pound.

Gave lecture comparing Rilke and TSE- *Duineser Elegien* and *Four
Quartets.* Attended various lectures on Rilke. A young German who is
at the University of Chicago told me how utterly out of touch with
the rest of the world he feels America to be. It is true that there is a
pall of bored disillusionment here."

Stephen Spender *Journals 1939-1983*, 1985, p. 310.
"No man lives without jostling and being
jostled. In all ways he has to elbow himself
through the world, giving and receiving offence."

Carlyle, "Sir Walter Scott," 1838


"Job endured everything- until his friends
came to comfort him, then he grew impatient."

Kierkegaard, Journal, 1849


"A sigh can break a man in two."

The Talmud


"The return of my birthday, if I remember it, fills
me with thoughts which it seems to be the general
care of humanity to escape."

Dr Johnson, B, V, 222.

c. 1977-1978

A Journal For Language

The cab,
the mask,
the secret,
the stolen part.
Yielding, to
I wanted to ask
that quiet (whose?)
interruption now in,
the calendar,
the screaming fête
of a modulated chord
brushing spoken average points
momentum. Interim as
not justified
in the sense
of margins,
Chinese dreaming
illusion prior to.
Handed dictionary.
Third voice:
squeezed history
added to seminars,
labyrinths of washed shell
correction time.
He's trees. Wooded margin.
In breath
Accompanying music.

J’attend, I mean, et il fait,
happen, it will rain.
It moves to silence: bronze
and I'll arrive
at my destination,
a place
where we meet,
around the corner,
the bar, we laughed,
anyone would
by now
be confused
about grammar,
by what's French
for to encourage
if it's when I go
to look for it
it's gone.
The three distinct
vanished languages,
washed up
onto the shore.

“The ocean”
is the story.
So is
“the boy”
in a book
and “the rain” and
“the dog.”

A boy, the rain, his dog.
And of course, a gentle,
almost too sincere
and a cloud.
An ironic reference
to painting
and something said
about painting.
Five days, not seven,
not in advance
one the work week.
Is a seven day
One wants to
departer (?)
comma, lover, accuser,
Herr Friend,
Herr Freud.
I won't, Mallarmé,
copy him,
out for you know who,
sign accosted on poem,
rock, said “keep writing.”
Word say signature.
I like to write in lined
composition books.
This one's blue.
Valery writing about
Mallarmé's poetry himself.

What I do very well
is listen to Ravel.
It's just
that I'll take his word
(name) for it.
What Ed
means by balustrades
might be the way
to the window
by this light.


Reasoning through
an entire thought,
a musical interlude,
sustaining voices,
semblance of order,


the historical part,
the hint
of the external
internal ambiguity
of one part
you are listing
would be
the banal shock
of a memory.

— take one example
of interruption
(chance, change)
(minus the
and in ambersans)
of something
or not
it is centered.
come up
as are certain
of a mutuality
of reference points,
a language being
the equivalent
of falling into
an even more basic
of the arbitrary
no, significant

— two French
words here
memories I am
not obliged
to note,
towels, glissandos.

— The shape
of a frown
not by the comparison
of arbitrary
word choice.

— note the same mood

(is this 1)
or six? 6)

of simultaneously
over a grid
of choices.
By extension, I want to run
from the situation,
thereby extending it
by eradicating it
Realizing the
phantom of punctuation,
for example,
by way of lengthening
the chain, which is of course
not to be wrapped around
my neck but placed on it,
a bow
on the present—
I bought a ribbon.
Ordinary occurrences.

7) not waiting for on a line,
the time selected
was is not arbitrary
and therefore is
time limited
At every distance,
every word choice
criterion is
not simply
the arc
of available choices,
the infinite array
of practical
to life,
but the aesthetic,
the particular
of an object
in any case.

8) Is this limiting
limited) choice,
or to
by error
randomly choose
the same axis
of my experience,
reflected as it is
simply unnecessary
to translate
my personal symbols
(interference) into
deliberate references
to a related

Soon I will have
a lagoon
for my potentials
to suit:
a deck of cards.
Too serious a use,

like a transposition
of tonalities
an earlier thought
is thoughtlessly
by another
random one.
And once
the deck of cards
exhibits fewer
and fewer
apparent mysteries
the game is over,
or rather
the hand,
kept alive
in its characteristic
shape is utilitarian
becomes at once
the memory
of a conventional
a direction
on a page,
a map
that does not keep
descriptions visible
for very long.

space as emphasis.
As of heading,

if too much
macrocosm, too much
personal emphasis
to a deemphasis.

for example,
in quotes,
“how much.”

As an example of.

the types of order
in sentences.
The weighing
is in the choice
which appears
from some
As the viewpoint
is touched
with color,
a blue chosen
to embrace
a friend
as he turns
on the memory
of a turn
on a page
(nearer, distant)
of a page
is the echo
of its hemisphere
is satisfied
is equivalent
is defined as
a size smaller,
a definition of area,
in calligraphic signals
which clumsily
clarify their exact presences
not only
as a
treat of memory,

Not there,
or moved
by previous choice
of anyone.
But the public
in names
and words
become coins
become tokens
of recorded memory,
historical significance
set up
looking freedom
of arbitrary word choice.
as outer order
is built up
(was it the shorthand
they ordered
or is it
out of calendar
within which
you can save
of ownership
of time
in a system
by specific
word usage
for arranging human
on a terminal surface
defined by personal lines
previously agreed upon.
These marks
define the arc
of previous
personal choices
as they relate
to previously
personal territories.
But without the mask,
the gun, the covering,
it could not be
reproduced authentically.
They were copying as follows:
of certainties,
the tie,
the index of organization,
assigned, designated areas.
Arbitrary word choice—
lingering around crevices
of bones, carcasses,
skeletons of fragments,
skinnier and skinnier
until they vanish
into a thumbprint
on a frame
of each page
one frame
of the
The starlet
is owned
by the word,
the world
through her name.
Her signature,
as I turn
to another
which slowly
(previously: gradually)
an earned territory
(the posts, stamps marked “received”)
of each
of the essences
of combining events.
The store closed,
strode off.
In its darkened interior
the objects are barely
No longer feeling unsure,
whose eyes again keep
their bare indentations,
the establishment
of subheadings,
the shadowy
doubtful presence
of muted
half happenings,
the unevenable
So compared,
the definable certainty
of the existence
specific facts
putting the first,
for instance,
back to the textual
first nowhere,
the instance,
then back to the textual
first instance,
the naming,
the utterance,
the enumeration,
the spell.

His, this,
the journalist,
in a year of diary.
Takes us back to the former
other days
of hysterical
weird events.
the density
which seemed.



World events

as specific
actual occurrences
in a chosen
personal instance,
not seeming
at that moment
totemic in value.
Just the opportunity,
the play.
Neat, maybe next
I'll remember
a particular
(formerly: specific)
This much.
A cost,
How much feeling now.
What do you do now.
Who knows
what makes it easier.


It goes 50 years
without any certainty.
I was marked here:
but who
corrected for you
marked me here.
But you could be
anybody namely.
At your point (whose?)
You wouldn't say you.

Sandy beach

Bottom, shell


A shaky hand.
X rapidity of images.
At the top of the your voice.

Play around with meanings.
No. You're not
that cure.
Just a bit,
I was gonna say crazy
but you're,
you're not
that embarrassing.
Any character
could say that,
even the Pavlovian.
No I don't know
how much
to make your dreams count.
I have to argue with you once,
M. Pavese.
Pounce, pronounce.
As margins,
You have it
or I think you it first.
I could be thinking harder,
I think.

Then: a French persona.

c. 1977

Lying unnoticed among a bunch of papers is a page of notes. These notes appear to be written in a
language of symbols. One of the symbols is a group of words written in a circle.

Lying unnoticed among a bouquet of flowers is a rose. These flowers appear to bearranged in a certain order. One of these flowers is a round flower with many petals.

Lying unnoticed among a bunch of words is a message. This message appears to be organized to communicate a particular thought. The thought is complete and clear only to the one who receives the message.

Three words contain the message.

Lying unnoticed among a bunch of letters is a secret. This secret appears the have great meaning for the reader. The meaning makes her feel complete.

She wants to know the three words but they elude her.

Thursday, September 18

Wood s Lot throws a little an online birthday party for Samuel Johnson.
This just in!!!!

Ray Davis
holds forth on the big L!

"Me, I no more like everything called "Language Poetry" than I like everything called "Hong Kong movies." It's just where I find a part I like..."

More...check it out... Bellona Times


"I rarely have a team in the finals y'know"

comes through with (on Thursday, September 18):

*two tens

Top 10 Dangers of Living in the Blog Space (via Jerz's Literacy Weblog)

Electric Venom's 10 Things I've learned about Blogging (via J Walk)*

Quite often the truth of the performer
causes dismay in the spectator.

Creativity is stimulated by finding the
optimum moment for doing what is necessary.
This allows the maximum time for doing what is
The final version of the poem below (dated 11/9/96) appeared in -An Avec Sampler #2-, edited by Cydney Chadwick, in 1998.



See the object as a semblance
Moving towards an assigned space
A reason to include confusion
Encompassing, not inhabiting, an idea.
The sketch finally faded into
A comprehensible image. Erase it
And begin again, with color. Will
Is an abstraction. Starting over,
The artist herself vanished into a texture.

Say the object was a hindrance,
Taking in an arranged surface.
A raging to forbid illusion
Engrossing, and infusing, a career.
The catch ultimately involved
An invinceable persuasion. Hold it
Or confront it before you speak. Words
Translate emotion. In reverse,
the philosopher himself evolved into a paradox.

Hear the statement as a structure
Tracing an inevitable release.
A premise for arranging connections
Enhancing, not constructing, a facade.
The switch dissolved completely
Into a forseeable translation. Trace it
And endure it because you can't. Thoughts
Prefigure commands. By analogy
The critic herself emerged as a perception.

Touch the feelings like a zither
Forming a musical entr'acte
A setting that forbids intrusion
Enlarging, or embodying, a mistake.
The crux was amply disclosed
As an arguable transposition: State it
Or suggest it as an event. Dreams
Precede desires. In effect.
The musician himself is an instrument of his melodies.

Proclaim the words as a proposal
Portraying an invisible collapse.
A vessel that transports convictions
Embedding and exporting a delight.
Thus chance came to represent
An unalterable conclusion: Recite it
Or pronounce it as a chant. Songs
Select a voice. So to speak
The language of the poem constructs the poet.

See the object as a semblance
Toward an assigned place
A reason to include confusion
Encompassing, not inhabiting, an idea.
The sketch finally dissolved into
A comprehensible image. Erase it
And begin again, with color. Will
Is an abstraction. Starting over,
The artist herself vanished into a texture.

Say the object was a hindrance,
Taking in an arranged surface.
A raging to forbid illusion
Engrossing, and infusing, a career.
The catch ultimately involved
An invinceable pursuasion. Hold it
Or confront it before you speak. Words
Translate emotion. In reverse,
The philosopher himself evolved into the paradox.

Hear the statement as a structure
Tracing an inevitable release.
A premise for arranging connections
Enhancing, not contracting, a facade.
The switch completely evolved
Into a forseeable translation. Trace it
And endure it because you can't. Thoughts
Prefigure commands. By analogy,
The critic herself emerged as a perception.

Touch the feelings like a zither
Forming a musical entr'acte
A setting that forbids intrusion
Enlarging or embodying, a mistake.
The crux was simply disclosed
As an arguable transposition. State it
Or suggest it as an event. Dreams
Precede desires. In effect,
The musician himself is an instrument of his melodies.

Proclaim the words as a proposal
Portraying an invisible collapse
A vessal that transports convictions
Embedding and exporting a delight.
Thus chance came to represent
An alterable conclusion- recite it
Or pronounce it as a chant. Songs
Select a voice. So to speak
The poet herself is uttered as a language.
Nice poem on Tuesday, September 16 from Allegrezza Blog...Bill Allegrezza



Changing places
Placing change
Those travels
Those travails
Troubles seek
Starting back
With words
Making statements
Convincing yourself
The sweet torments
Of nothing doing
The wishes benefits
Though not the same
As ending


Fingering lies
Unharmed figures
Hours at mercy
Caring lot
Suspended wisdom
Flesh at hand
Gossamer glimpses
Temptations sand
Witnessing ever
Choosing long
Starting over
staring song


Favorite whistles
Breathing through
Severing closer
Triumphant few
Clouds attention
Tracing bend
Hidden troubles
Crying friend.


At the center of
The pressures
Near the surface of
The pleasures
From the depths of
The stillness
Near the side of
The burning


Hold the trying's frame
Take the turning's name
From frustration's blame
To play an ancient game


Again the old frustration. Can't
seem to find that feeling of
inspiration. Here's the time- here's
the interest, but where's the poem?
I must work harder.This is why
it is so tempting to give up. Of
course there is fear and hesitation.
The poem takes me to the brink
of pain and suffering that I don't
want to think about. it's like
staying away from anything dangerous.
What is dangerous is not the possible
outcome but the feelings I have to
contend with that might emerge.
More than ever I want to
understand this reluctance. Perhaps
part of it is that I thought of
poetry as pure play- but there is
an aspect of encountering anxiety
which I shy away from as naturally
as one might shy away from a
burning flame. What is this anxiety?
Part of it is the fear of nothingness-
the fear of passivity- because so
much of writing has to do with
receptivity and patience. Meanwhile,
time is passing. Poetry is a kind of
meditation that asks the reader to
also meditate. It is a questioning
that offers more questions than answers.
It is a desire to perform and to
exhibit ideas, language, experiences.
A lot of the time I want to
do it and avoid it at the same
time. Keep coming to these
impasses. I like the Beckett
statement about the obligation to
express with nothing to express.
Poetry is always about the
courage to face this vast
emptiness- which is nothing
more or less than the difficulty
to truly engage with others-
and with oneself.

I want to show
What cannot be shown
To know
What cannot be known
To sing
What cannot be sung
To hear
What cannot be heard

I think part of the secret is to
accept the pleasure in having this
opportunity even when the actuality
is so frustrating- the pleasure
should be able to overcome
the frustration and give permission toi
continue. So writing poetry is
hard because the usual reaction or
logical reaction to frustration
would be to give up. I've noticed
that the imagination is like any
muscle in the body which gets
tired and doesn't want to work
Is it the tension that's
needed when I just want to relax?

The poem is preposterous.
It wants no part of us.
Living in itself, in its own world
It sees us with a dispassionate eye.
We speak to it in seductive tones
To try to woo it out of its hiding place.
But it stays inside.
So we try to echo its sounds
With our sound.
Finally, ikt takes pity on us
And lets us in.
Once inside we understand
But when we're out we can't understand.
We imitate its grandiose independence
With admiring words

Nothing is unfamiliar anymore
Not a dog's barking
Or a friend's illness
Not the gestures of love
Nor the hoarse throated screamings of hate
Not the wrinkied face pains of birth
Or the exhausted and empty faces of death
Because my pleasure in poetry
Was based on communicating
The strangeness of things, this
Pleasure has diminished because
Things are no longer so strange.
It's even hard to make them appear strange-
Even inside their masks, I know who they are.
Fulness isn't strange, nor is emptiness.
Both are as ordinary as a wrinkled shirt
Or a dirty cup.

The answer, obviously, is to
Communicate the pleasures of the everyday- but how is
This to be done without sounding mawkish or dull.
What about tthat good bagel for breakfast with whitefish,
And that cup of coffee, reading the paper,
Talking to Toni for hours and hours,
Reading a good book, a
Sunny day, a long walk,
A warm sweater, the icy moon,
With the dark branches painted right over?

"Newts, crawling things in slime and mud, poisons,
The barren soil, the evil men, the slag and hideous rot."

Whitman, pl 427


Wednesday, September 17


c. 1864


Emily Dickenson

I felt a cleaving in my Mind
As if my Brain had split-
I tried to match it- Seam by Seam-
But could not make them fit.

The thought behind I strove to join
Unto the thought before-
But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
Like Balls- upon a floor.



The kind of waiting I am doing is very
similar to procrastination- but it is not
procrastination. It recognizes that most
of the constructing is occuring unconsciously and the
strongest creation uses this knowledge as a
foundation stone.

Porchia- "When the superficial wearies me
it wearies me so much that I need an abyss
in order to rest."

Comprehension (with a wide-ranging view) encompasses more in a
moment than tedious ordering accomplishes in years.

It's simply that when the time has come
you go ahead and complete whatever it is.

Had it not
come at last,
the expanse of
vision he'd been
waiting for all
his life? Still,
he'd not expected
the rhythms to be
so continuous, the
quality of no
particle of stopping,
the pushing on
further at every
coming interval,
no pause even for
breath because the
connection is at all
times complete. Nothing
can be unimportant
because it is only
the next feeling which
is important, because
it proceeds, at times
quickly, at times,
slowly, but always
connecting every
moment. It almost
proceeds like a
story, it is so
logical and self-
explanatory in its
unfoldings. The
secret of the past
is always in the
present; the
underlying meaning
of the present
is always in
the past. This
is why it seems
like sadness
but it isn't.
The next- like a
sunset after a day,
a hug before leaving,
waving, kissing,
holding. Holding,
holding it always
should be holding.
We are closer than
we can dare
admit. Even the
air we breathe is
the same. There
can be no waiting
because something
is always happening
which is connecting
every moment in an
uninterrupted song,
a succession of
notes which can only
explain each other.
What you thought
you were waiting for
you've had so much
longer than you
would like to
admit. The words
hold hands, the
sky and the earth
pull and push
away from each
other in a dance,
a passionate
embrace. For
some moments, full.
The words speak
themselves to
themselves, uttered
in a progression
of proportionate
silences, speaking
and hearing, translating
themselves through each
other. At times still,
even sleeping, forgetting,
confusing, losing,
slipping in hesitations,
angers, doubts, hurts,
memories, delusions,
fantasies. So
much, at times, is
happening, that once
in awhile it must be
told in a great
rush. This hurrying
seems, in a sense,
to be rushing
towards the end,
but this is only
because, at last
it must come, if
only as a measure.
Perhaps in this
terrific rush, this
hurry to get to
what? A kind of
understanding, or a
hurried glimpse of
something, or perhaps
trying to catch
up to it, rushing
behind it to catch
up to it, but
still in all this
pushing forward,
there is the
constant mixture
of sadness and joy,
whether at times
the tempo changes,
which also records
the excited dance
between the piano
and orchestra which
continuously seems to
be climaxing, but this
coming towards is also
an eloquent
introduction to what
emerges next.

(listening to
Marta Argarich playing the
Rachmaninoff 3rd Piano


Believe it or not, I read all the blogs I put on my Crush Lists, and since
I included Kasey's blog about his college class concerning Zombie
films, I read through all his students' blogs very quickly and my votes for the best student blogs are those of Janna and Keith. I did read through them fast.

And, may I add, you college teachers deserve a lot of credit and *more money*!
Saturday, August 31, 1901

Claude Debussy in a letter
to Raoul Bardac

"Time spent carefully creating the atmosphere in which a work of art
must move is never wasted. As I see it, one must never be in a hurry to
write things down. One must allow the complex play of ideas free rein:
how it works is a mystery and we too often interfere with it by being
impatient- which comes from being too materialistic, even cowardly,
though we don't like to admit it."


Tuesday, September 16


The Illusion of Level

Something precedes it
And how it breaks my heart
That what I don't have
Doesn't have me.
I'm applying for a job in eternity.
The hours are terrible but the duties are light
And only the furniture and love
Lean on your molecules.
Oh, the embitterment
Oh, the tears cried for a birthday
And the endless waiting.
But it is mostly a trick
Done to the kind of seizures
That accompany the holidays
A portrait of salamanders on wood and glass.
Forgive me, kind teacher,
For my awful Spanish
My references to globules
Both stout and slim.
You put them there anyway
Just to confuse me
(Thought's honesty so abrasive)
I ought to just leave, and I do, and I will.
Just one moment!


Finally there's someone to give to
And there's so much to give, I'm scared.
A simple decision...oh, that *word*!
I'm tired of it and also of the punctuation,
The pronunciation, light for light and dark for dark.
I'm exhausted, black against white, horrible screams,
White against yellow, brown against brown.
Who determines these things? Don't they listen?
A poet is a voice from the gutter,
A blubbering, terrified, lonely child.
How I gape.
How I stare and let my eyes grow large,
How impatient she is, in her crying,
How patient and irritable mother is,
Never tired of talking and listening.

The men accuse me, whispering and laughing,
Two pants legs, what a riot.

Voices, and more voices, *Stimmen und drang*.
Noise isn't what's destroying those maracas.
It's sobbing.


They put me in jail and expect me to talk.
Who's kidding who?
Who is the therapist and who the artist?
This one you can never shut up
And the other won't start talking.
Dialogue is impossible, better to use
A wet nurse and a television set.


If they use the word "transference" one more time
I'm going to start screaming.


"Resistance." What a laugh.
It's like trying to make a
Non-site out of bronze.
They eat chocolates instead,
They peel them from pages of Freud
And nibble. No one even stops in the hallway.
Art walks around in here
Like a neglected "borderline."
Isn't anybody else sick of words?


Bite the hand that feeds you.



Being a Pongeian exposition of the word
for B.W. and C.H.

Narrative is one step back: I look into
a mirror and what I see is
what I intended. But beyond all this
you don't have to hang yourself to
prove that the rope is strong. Such as:
a softie cannot be a heavy. Limit a world
becomes more than one text. The before has
died- they were in earnest. What does
it mean to mention an interval (squeeze
that one in- "after awhile, you want to
follow it- the power of a name.") Close
quotes. On separate ground. A vast
portrait of the American flag- such as
"the poem" and not "the poetry= a vast
proving ground." Un etage. M returns.
An elaborate trick to hold the floor. This
time we are laughing and holding our sides.
The moon in a furor- "Racing With
The Moon"= a tracing, a blank space.
Young and old, a wild spelling +
a cold. "Mean it" inhabits. The
text glows with aplomb (Valorization
Principle becomes "words make their own
things.") Everybody played a hand and
beat me so evidently this put me out of
the game- different kind of Bridge, but
the game *could* form a
bridge to who is being addressed there-
racing with the Alfred Ryder moon.

Monday, September 15


Each age benefits from the accomplishments of
all the previous ages. With such a large
inheritance, why worry? The individual
becomes the bored driver of a conveyance
he or she has little knowledge of, takes little care
of, so eventually, it becomes
untrustworthy- like her or him.


Translation Sans Original

You think I'm too old
Or too slow
To notice the sun is tapering off
You think I'm too silent
Or too dense
To find the whirling planets dull
And academically repetitive
For me day is easy
And night is easier still
For me sleep is a page in a book
I still haven't read
Can't you brush against words
Instead of demanding their participation
And telling them to grow up and settle down?
Don't you understand
That language is young and doesn't know yet
In whose tongue to speak?
Tell you friends that speech
Has no nation
That the crown is an umbrella
For paragraphs.
Walk around this spacious world
With things left over
From this morning.
Be transparent.
Let living stammer

Sunday, September 14

:: fait accompli :: Bloglink Crush List (NEW LINKS)



MadVerse.com...A.D. Nelson

Moonshine Highways...Amy Bernier

Stamen Pistol

The Casual Tee...Trevor Calvert


In Place of Chairs

The Unquiet Grave

Baghdad Burning

My Blog...Michael Cross

Allegrezza Blog...Bill Allegrezza

(Mollusk)...Carl Annarummo

The Openings...Alan DeNiro


Stephen Vincent


Not Exactly New But (((((HOTTER)))))((((THAN)))))(((((EVER)))))

Ruminate...Chris Lott

Blue Kangeroo...Jean Gier

Dead Letter Game...Bill Marsh

Zazie's Zone

Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church

Sorter...Patrick F.Durgin...

Yoo Doo Right...Mike County

The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze

Swimming for Dummies...Tanya Brolaski


The Skeptic...John Erhardt

Conchology...Gabriel Gudding

Parking Lot...Chris Corrigan

Process Documents...Ryan Fitzpatrick

Aimee Nezhukumatathil's gila monster


Whiskey River

Dumb Monkey


Caveat Lector


Slight Publications...Chris Sullivan

Zombie...Kasey S. Mohammad

Marsh Hawk Press Blog

xtina.org....Christina Strong

Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook

tex files...Chris Murray

abolone..Li Bloom

prrrowess...Nada's Poems

Wood s Lot...Mark Woods

Texture Notes...Sawaka Nakayasu

: fait accompli ::
spellbound speculations- time travel


ululations... Nada Gordon

Equanimity ...Jordan Davis

A Laurable Log...Laura Willey

Elsewhere ... Gary Sullivan

E.T....Heriberto Yepez

Jim Berhle's Famous Monkey

Well Nourished Moon ... Stephanie Young

Limetree ... Kasey Silem Mohammad

Ron Silliman

Million Poems... Jordan's Poems

Bloggedy Blog Blog...Katie Degentesh

Overlap... Drew Gardner

Pantaloons: Tykes on Poetry... Jack Kimball

Free Space Comix...Brian Kim Stefans

The Ingredient...Alli Warren

Rutabaga...Johanna Rauhala

CorpsePoetics....Eileen Tabios

Porthole Redux ....Catherine Meng

The Jetty...Cassie Lewis

Tympan...Tim Yu

texturl ... Brandon Barr

Bemsha Swing...Jonathan Mayhew

Reading and Writing...Joseph Duemer

Cahiers de Corey...Josh Corey

Where is Raed?...Salem Pax

: (solipsis)...Lanny Quarles

Poetry About dot com...Bob Holman

Squish ... Kathleen Parrish

Language Hat

Eeksy-Peeksy,,,Malcolm Davidson

Mike Snider's Formal Blog

Chimera Song Mosaic...Deborah Wardlaw Pattillo

Bellona Times...Ray Davis

Polis Is Eyes...James Cook

Never Neutral...Ernesto Priego

We Write To Taste Life Twice...Crystal King

No Starting Point...Emma Barnes

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

In A Dark Time...Loren Webster

Hatstuck and Snarl...Stephen Kirbach

Arm Sasser...Carl Annarummo

Word Placement...Clayton A. Couch