1/30/15


Weather permitting, there’s a method to share, a tummy poke when you whisper this is both natural and secular.

Adorno says plain speech is fair game starting over (in the middle) but its put doesn’t count. (It’s always been technical.)

Surely there’s no foundering beneath the social parasail of violence. Rules commit us. Your card is deactivated.

Yet that’s only 1 worst case — let me give you a hand. g = 1. Everything noted, integrated, getting by on a riddle gauge, part of the solution looking up.

1/26/15


Teaching can be reversed.
It’s Nature. Try.

Stage and film directors intuit the last 10 decades. Tears.
Everything has that-did-it stench

Graphic arts grip in multiplicities. Swimming
Synchronized. Speaking

As a narrator here, I’m no art fellow, a swimming
plateau = not finding hotter places to palaver.

One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to raise your rent.
Such filament as A neap tide itemizes all bets. Not worse

And like beach safety overall — you bring it back to the house.
Tears an hour from Nauset. Sign within.

Frankly hot-doggily, signing like this can’t be taught.

1/23/15


Mimesis. Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

*

I smell a rat. We’re still in the wait space. Your name came up on my tooth. Capacious, breathtaking anxiety, yes, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... you’re done. In a footloose world your body loads up on symbolism. Go ahead, chat up every one here. But take care, the next stage of trolling pillagers is fickle. Then it begins, your life is over. Love & money go down together.

Yes, you know gobs of cash, living well, poof. Question, tho... I’m just curious having compulsively misplaced most of life’s grotesqueries, Does the rescinded narrative understand how & where stories are produced, to which claims long ago transcended time & place inside the game we are the metaphor & conception?

1/22/15


Sweeping reductions were next. Romulus and Remus. Appetite and style,
these are core elements of classicism, romanticism too. Appetite
includes style but style directs taste and other pretenses of appetite.
A she wolf looks after style.

1/21/15


7,000,000,650,000,003

1/20/15


You never achieve status as a full pariah

even as Starsky and Amida exquisitely

handcraft cheesy retributions on the veranda —

losers = loyal worshippers of those they detract.

Soak up the view. This could have been a sonnet.
I never use that word now. It’s a place you’d barbecue?

In the better version by Wilde pathos =
appropriating mauves; outsourced research;

less (though) murmured coloration;

no trust of ex intimates. All these



personnel hence to be shifted or fired

but keep their jobs somehow, achieving an overweight
bliss of the non willed state, an enlightened

legality inside streamlined minds.

1/18/15


Dear Politico,

I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.

Ah, the ham’s faction just hatched..

Have yourself a good time. I’ll have you over when poli science gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment among the underemployed in hyper décor (like object placement) decoding automation... After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk! we’re fine with “no real choice.”

1/15/15


Knowing we live forever offspring of Cro-Magnons

He thought about SciFi from the Seventies and Eighties

Fighting the relative fight to endure

All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum

As if meeting death halfway hapless (tho deceitful)

The kind of young scent you’d desire



He thought about SciFi from the Seventies and Eighties

As a clay toned physique turns from the window

Arguing before we understood the beloved Baal

His coat with the fired bullet in it, effluvia

All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum

Temporal as this shitty ten-room with its simultaneity



As a clay toned physique turns from the window

A bright light credited to chimera w/in a purifying labyrinth

At the end of the aqua bluest fluorescent test tube

The kind of young scent you’d desire

Fighting the relative fight to endure

A silvery lime mist hanging in the streets



A bright light credited to chimera w/in a purifying labyrinth
Shedding light tints of reversed decisions = surf

The kind of young scent you’d desire

All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum

Covert shapes holding out a tattered sample

His coat with the fired bullet in it, effluvia



Temporal as this shitty ten-room with its simultaneity

To have another heart to heart in different tempi

At the end of the aqua bluest fluorescent test tube

As a clay toned physique turns from the window

A silvery lime mist hanging in the streets

Arguing before we understood the beloved Baal



To have another heart to heart in different tempi

Fighting the relative fight to endure

The kind of young scent you’d desire

He thought about SciFi from the Seventies and Eighties

All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum

Counting on the manager to make the connection



Covert shapes holding out a tattered sample

A silvery lime mist hanging in the streets

As if meeting death halfway hapless (tho deceitful)

Knowing we live forever offspring of Cro-Magnons

Counting on the manager to make the connection

Shedding light tints of reversed decisions = surf

1/14/15


Language has some slight vegan sexuality

To one side as noted by third parties



Hanging out in their unusual white corridors

Suggesting you’re still trembling from the



Pinch off, just a short chopper ride

From the bank and trade. It’s language

With a so called motherlode glossary,
Interesting for switching placidities.

Why does a face arrest? Thoughts knitted together
Like mica pile ups, shouts ricochet thru voicetracks,

Lobbing the pinned acorns underbrush until they’re scooped,
2 holding our breath, bounced, kicked, ungloved by catalysts.

1/12/15


Postconceptual is not disappearing into other formats, it’s being these formats you are. (Kenny Goldsmith)

1/10/15


Dear Rene,

A beautiful person loves riding in your Tbird and holding you
Even though you can’t concentrate. She’s in a place, well
A place she’s never been before. Your convertible.

You have on your eyeliner from long ago.
You have or had nonreturn probabilities. Lucky you.

Cicadas are here. For the first time she
Is a friend. It’s great taking part with you.
You gave what you took, your workout once of a soul:

I like what you did last time. Thanks.
You brought a lot of us a lot of joy.

Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.

Heedless and highly egotisical,
Two good words; highly too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and I’ll.

1/9/15


“Keeping secrets?” I whisper to Yau, “What’s going on?”
(I love this part.) Awesome.

“Let me tell you why you’re here,
To disseminate our values,” sung this time too easily

Admittedly, amid an extremely dull symphonic module countrywide:

This song administrated by a sign poet painter
Who roves and raids or pillages
For tomcat.

Yao approaches G_rri and Na_a after their wildly successful 1st joint reading in NYC.

This is so great! To foil imitators
Please. Rate this song! Yay.
They’re throwing dirt on my head effigy.


On levait la tête..


The one with dirt is doing the robot

(a dance at gunpoint), facing
Worse than a headache, taking root!

& b.y.o.b. I want an open marriage

— in the air breathing! Alive as any spoon worm inside the womb, a redback dies in the reproductive tract! somersaulting into his administrator’s fangs while feeling a tap from mañana to shoot the marriage —

We grab the narrator (we can’t rule him out) staying blithe
a tenebrae-filled kind of man in potato dirt color shirt,
perhaps, yet cool responding to our calls, the Buddha Machine on low

Tramp Lapping My Skull

1/7/15


A wild or perhaps even a good guess as to what readers crave is a byproduct of becoming a reader. One writer rarely reads alone, and that’s part of the saga of collectivity and simultaneity. She and others pick up similar texts, comparable projects, snowballs start flying. When a writer thinks in public about what she’s reading, she’s taking aim and will be aimed at in turn, pro and con. This is one yarn of opinion acclimatization, hardly superfluous.

The signature concern is a reader’s experience. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, that so many writers simultaneously figure out readers’ expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, nonprofit cultural construction, corporate performance theory and the like.

Thinking more decentrally about Nicole Brossard: A brazen writer like Brossard distinguishes herself taming her otherness and the other directedness that she (writer) and (s)he (reader) share.

You don’t want her festivity so much as your investigation into her iconoclasm. It would be abetting deeper juxtaposition to bracket one’s enjoyment just to explore the alarm and vacuity anyone else had previously not known. How does she know? How does she improvise? What timing(s)? How do you account for a received notion “being in the present”? Even better.

on levait la tête on aimait les petits arbres
derrière le fer forgé du cinquième étage
personne ne tombait jamais
plus bas que notre habitude de la vie


[taking pleasure in these trees, looking up
through the 5th floor wrought iron
nobody ever falls lower than
this, what we make our habit in life]

The narrator who claims personne ne tombait jamais speaks for me and anyone who takes enjoyment with no palpable fear of falling.

While translating freely is not always the fairest compliment a writer may pay another, it is one path toward empathy (How does she improvise?) as well as appreciating Brossard’s command of what is suggested here (How does she know?). And in four short lines we stumble across habitude. It is a writer’s answer, Brossard’s answer for now, to be in the present.

1/2/15


Feet on the desk, smoking is a failed manner of speaking.
If I’m right, Beethoven’s later sonatas simplify to a significant degree.

He had to keep up. Or
it was beautiful.

{{Instructions are errands in an advanced society, to tell you everything now v
stalling, tense,

going over one part, step after minor step, taking stock of action figures.}

What’s my business?} Our forbearers told us to go off,
and that led to holding our share of a volatile

in an off sense augmented beyond constraint, driven
by the smallest business unmastered to the core.