I believe a poetic artist must be set free to make more and more mistakes. So long as he or she is branded for lack of taste! (Big money in poetry takes care of that.)

Whew.

*

So who picks my music ’n prose? She’s a far out snob.

Our area is interpretive search.

(Want to read our minds? enjoy.)

At 1 time there was modernism + plus in diffusion. Then a going dutch like critique, thanks to Millennials. Yamaguchi feels such criticism got way over-modulated becoming 2nd rate, safety school argot sampling masked hostility, the bravura of indecisiveness, backing it up with inexactitude ’n randomness from what we were doing before the next procedural (The Aughts) took hold:



A bright skepticism mostly shows up as identity. Your youthful identity, hardened m.o.’s, everything close to you — evaporating, taken down, resigned to further decades of processed shock of the simple, school crossing zone simple, where pop classics are re-authenticated, highlighting most everyone’s weak spots.

Hey Siri (British female).

Up with proportionality, southpaw.

She spoke plainly for a big hearted killer
Darling. Morning

Revels meet one halfway, blurring promises in
An aftermath of the hiatus, letting all adages die down.

Is this a document or did I make it up?
Frozen water on Mars is the smoking gun.

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal of whose pablum?
(Where should I hurt?) Once and be done.. A few more own



-ers fix the climate really fast with glass and nickel coated levers.

A marionette’s defiance is as semi-defensive



As ours but we of the liberal arts seem tall ’n

Inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

A religion of men sharpening endurance, risking focus..

Hermes masks, a precondition as two satyrid mayflies pop to something, ones who advocate for peace. Their reputations recede but the fact of apprehension remains way before guns were worn.

*

The males in our families prompt discussions that started long ago to induce “flipping surroundings.” Interdisciplinary terms spring up around an almost empty campground that remembers nothing of the nearly transparent sensory esotericists.

Bags of cardmember ideas prolong their standing in infinite battle with consciousness, jackets of air, big superficial clamor.

*

To repeat and hear homogeneous
offshore drillers / the plunk..


You and I live off their body equity
where my future holds in love with my clients,
also I’m environmentally debunked;



The sun is a naked bulb,
I’m a working temp, piling up losses
on the periodic table, petty in wanting you / I do

Architecture’s the thing.
A blood moon.

Some glass of red wine, a symptom of lifetime pains
— Has nothing to do with what give shivers.

Being a pain looks gifted that way.
A lot misunderstand to dote on.


Even better, we’ll toast to change and no change.
That said, it was a colorful gathering.

It’s not likely anything unsaid simplifies what
Need saying, those we cannot recall. Toast.

Cold draft.

There are blasts from out of nowhere..

They keep getting a fifth element.
I’ve discovered squeezing adds more activity.

Still. Very well, all these charming Blimpie squirts

Like dreams going to fray.

I just read children get 10% of daily calories out

Of soda (pronounced soder around here).

That’s how they become bilingual &
Fill up with feast superstitions.

Greyhound hurling on seesaw feels fine, really
Most footage balances if pushed, so it’s wax,
Never merely serene. More news, relaxing,
Comes to ground, triples no questions asked.
Cedar clump> falls> rust pad dead> in a day.

Later Lately
Ted Greenwald
Cuneiform, 2015



There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them.
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 11.

I may continue to continue. To be pressed on cardboard.
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.”

Eyewitness: From Black Mountain to White Rabbit
Carolyn Dunn, interviewed by Kevin Killian
Granary, 2015



A sidekick or co-perpetrator, Carolyn Dunn went along with Joe Dunn.

They raised a postwar ruckus in the mid 1950s, through a remarkable chain of poetry circumstances and at least two ‘renaissances’ — including life in Boston, a stay at Black Mountain and most notably, after Jack Spicer lent them airfare, a move to San Francisco. Carolyn and Joe dabbled in the antic art of saying yes, allowing events that unfold in Eyewitness, Carolyn’s memoir/conversation/exposé.

To strains of Charles Mingus and “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” what seem exquisite are Carolyn’s clear verbal snapshots that add up to realia and hard data for digging these extraordinary events. Saying yes is central to Carolyn and Joe’s friendship and marriage. When Spicer made that airfare offer, Carolyn’s reaction is unambiguous: We couldn’t pass that up! So in San Francisco, as in Boston and at Black Mountain, Carolyn Dunn was partner and daily witness to Joe Dunn in service to poetry.

Joe’s was a special life that no one aspires to, in fact no one can. It comes to one rather than the other way around. Early friendship with John Wieners in Boston led to both John and Joe attending the last weeks of Black Mountain College on scholarship (using teabags three times to save money). For Joe and Carolyn this is followed soon by returning briefly to Boston, driving there from Black Mountain in a used car they named Opus in Pastels (after Stan Kenton), covered in rust patches and pink and purple anti-rust applications. After a few months in Boston, they made a well-timed move west to reunite raucously with other poets from Black Mountain. Once settled in the Bay Area Joe cofounded White Rabbit Press, “steadfast printers” to poets of the San Francisco Renaissance (Kyle Schlesinger). Joe’s was a daring physical commitment — Carolyn’s memoir confirms Joe covertly ran off the first ten White Rabbit books on an offset press at his work. More remarkable, Carolyn and Joe bet the house, their first floor furnished apartment on Jackson St, turning their quarters into an open meet for poets where “a party atmosphere prevailed” (Ellingham and Killian) along with an ongoing workshop for young writers to read new poems and discuss their work.

As memoir, Eyewitness is “one HELLUVA ride!!!” to quote Carolyn Dunn’s last thoughts about her times with Joe. As conversation, Kevin Killian is the Platonic ideal of interlocutor — gently prompting Carolyn’s memories from 60 years ago, big ideas and small (“You and Joe had cats…”); he’s on alert supplying frameworks to place detailed domestic recollections within a chronology of poetics events. Eyewitness sketches over blank lines of the Dunns’ adventure, enabling us to imagine more readily their concentrated work-cum-open-house in which first-order poetics was famously redefined as the praxis of poetry and discussion. It reveals salient points about Jack Spicer coming to the Dunns, first in Boston, later in San Francisco. Many others follow, Robert Duncan, Denise Levertov, Robert Creeley, Helen Adam, Robin Blaser et al. Of course, John Wieners. Joe and Carolyn were touched all over by these beings. Carolyn’s yes in partnership with Joe's enabled his youthful service to poets, service that became a lifelong celebration to the lucky few of the Black Mountain persuasion(s), their processes, their poems.

Song: If poetics is a democracy, evasion in poetics is subject for scrutiny.

Don’t get me wrong I think free speech is nominal, so there’s freedom to evade. I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend (that’s down). What’s it? There’s no workaround to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.

End quote.

Response: You have that special someone with a question.
If you’re willful you’ll stay in control, have the “one” and all the “features” you bring behave in unmeasured fondness?

Another question, I think.

Hurriedly now.



In the 1960’s we’d have taken time to assess Professor Falconer’s behavior. (A few minutes, at least.)



He’s a quick study today, if we translate him into readymade ideas coded over decades, daddy, older gay man, angry Oxbridge lib, suicidal loner ex-pat.



How collected and contextualized, though, are Falconer’s unraveling and fated demise as Colin Firth shows in the 2009 film A Single Man, adapted from Christopher Isherwood’s novel of 1964. Falconer’s well-groomed mien and pensive movements counter vulgar reductions of the code. Falconer literally comes to us floating in and under our view as opening credits blur from sight, signaling a watery exercise in stylish melancholia. Formerly chief designer at Gucci, director Tom Ford exposes a capacity for lachrymose austerity to encapsulate a privileged academic life around Southern California in a good time. Falconer inhabits the optics of Ford’s good taste in editing the best patterns and fads from the swinging sixties. Falconer’s residence is a spectacle of stagy / relaxed graphic intelligence — a glassed in pied à terre as might be envisioned by Pierre Koening or Donald Wexler — with interiors, both in Falconer’s house and campus offices — seemingly Van Rijck-ish — finicky-modernist palettes and iconic utensils of the post Sputnik era offered with proportioned visual flair — an IBM Selectic gleaming (gloomily) alone in the background on a side shelf.



Colin Firth gives flesh and blood to a mature homosexual prototype. It’s altogether credible that men 15 or 25 years younger than Firth-Falconer run after him. In sexual and cultural terms, Falconer stands in for the way it was and still is at times, apart from pop representations: the older, more accomplished calls some of the shots. Falconer coincidentally is a type from a less militant era, like today, in which bisexuality is not viewed as an absolute copout within gay milieus. It’s equally credible that Firth can be attracted and appealing to Julianne Moore, a friend and an ex around Firth’s age. Dancing together for short segments, drinking heavily but maintaining decorum, retaining their politic distances from one another — these are some of the more seductive elements to type.



In sharp contrast to flashbacks with Falconer and his dead lover, the single man now keeps other male interests at bay. Ardor is demonstrated only when imminent, understated. The film’s architectonic restraint exhibits a deeply queer promise of ok outcomes that operate here mainly within flashbacks, many in the form of wintry dreams where Falconer and his lover meet to close the circle that’s left wide open by the lover’s death. Falconer’s story-length plan to shoot himself unfolds as magically rational and even stoic when foreclosure is topmost. Near the film’s end, we are exposed to the specter of how a young, guardian-angel-faced potential lover achieves stunning presence of mind to protect Falconer who rests alone in an adjoining room. The young man finds the suicide weapon, hidden in a drawer, and keeps it safe by clutching the gun in his hand while he sleeps. As A Single Man has it, only one of them lives through the next morning. Another circle opens agape.

Anguish over a panel about reasoning and not writing anything down, an experience in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy sidewalk. So that’s one.

Once. This is very much a down, also. Extends thru rainy nightfall. I reason the surrogate image (x) is the serious and newer down. Razed; rain’s over, dancing on the lawn, its light flown as an oily example.

Side streets extend to hourly weather; to the power grid;
the rust fabric of walls about to be torn down; the danger of falling temperatures; they did.



I’m writing for one reason alone, to ring an alarm (an annunciator panel light).



Duly of course not sounded.

I try not to be serious.


I should be writing this down.

Decor: I lost my nonfaith in the underground

Poodle topping Chihuahua,
Dalmatian tied down on futon w/ starlet —
Maybe I deserve my extramarital wealth.


Now, like Joe Orton I play Fenders unter dem Deckmantel
Shih Tzu in barrel ate red pork rinds, sick
Pomeranian necklaced w/ black cord —

Dear Torch Bearer, I bit into the Friday media tables.
It’s my first fill of politics — Mr Fuzzy here —

we use photographs as subject matter; students in foreground (by an arch to
abandoned voters). We’re taping south, west and north.

Someone goes further after a button gets pushed,
a model theorist says hello, how are you, reverses course.
She heads upstairs to an installation in mounting solitude.


By Saturday & somewhere else one finds a thinly veiled version of me.
The jam on our toast is persimmon, steamy
as our bodies beep.

A kimono has been entered, explaining the subtopic tongue and cheek.

Cheek beep,
A fragrance is found shaking hands, wiping our brows.
To keep up we don’t find a compromise so we’ll vote often.

Crime: The big picture shows me my modest place.
I’m technically adept dining in (or out).

A few take umbrage from grumpy distortion,
fractured logic (Hex 39) and their own morbidity. While you —

You picked up the check. That’s swell, looting prestige,
the nether handle to misapplied figures, images,
exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

Max Planck fellows run off with radical research incentives for a frontier in unboundedness.

Organization in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances.

With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds their styles, taking them all in.

*

I wrote this 15 minutes ago.
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.

Entanglement: As a nonpractitioner attempting authenticity in speech,
Study Freud or any of the evolutionary researchers of the arctic.

Stick with insoluble nonfiction you’ll fall asleep after only 5 days
Blindfolded. (Our guarantee.)

Such brilliant dislocations a\we\re expected; it goes
Beyond, there are dark and unknown (again) predicates fixated on newer procedure

But in their case it’s sung to see into a protracted surfeit of space,
A sumptuous, soilless bond,

The angels.

*

They're real actors, not people.

*

I’m adding, right off, I don’t know if that helps.
There is the cynically obvious flesh and blood bind.
We were curious will do. A lament would be awful
to ennoble extraordinary times. Our cohort might
flock to lines of credit.

I’m caught right in the blast middle for the XIVth century.

There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth

Levels go down or soar depending on
Outer linear order.

The young gained on the old, those that could, 

Externalizing an antiquity beyond their years


Like ours. Permanently bantam weight to realize our view 

As something else frolicked up — inside. (That’s the renaissance.)



A ball of a bird, maybe a butterfly / Yeah, what do we care?

All we anticipate is an elegantly accessible chronicle of interdisciplinary montage
Along with financial services.

Linear standards like “I say”
And they never go away.

Frame: I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the physics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions

Reciting new slang exponents since we have no major gay issues
Making wave sounds while we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.

We thrive in non sequiturs,

Speaking of the cultural moment, the contest before poetry groups (there are no schools today) is both to amplify their message and mute opposition. The muting part is too easy, preventing them from becoming ‘schools.’ For as the term implies, a school fosters a social intellect that not merely speaks but also grows within moments. A group in contest is a rougher framework, around which we can pick in’s and out’s, effecting a flawed institute, narrowed, slighted, privative on either side.

There’s still no contract for a hermit. And you get peace of mind.

6S Plus:
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable

— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the again-feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways w/ brays.

All our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

*

I promised you a ham for painting bombast, cremating bad melody yonder.


That would be deep indoors at your and my place.

I’ll have you over when life and death crack the lobes of automation...
After that, there’ll be everything Orpheus to grab at.

Decor: I still want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
Marriage makes me horror struck
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.

Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

*

A poet contains both architect and carpenter. “Contains” is a convenience word, been meaning to tell you, Anne

*

— Religious type, agnostic, both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced off a nipple. It was the middle way, enlightenment simplified.

Lightning over fog. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming there’s no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These could be so

1. As appearances point to behind our sand dune, skipping temple.

2. As long as your swag is clean.

His haiku was stiff: full, bel canto, with a slight

Vocal member of the Illinois cultural

Studies group carrying a sawed off

Shotgun.

Schtick is a super concept.
And today’s laughter protocols could not be ‘more serious.’
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A loose term — proceed unamusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in talk, in writing.
You can’t have that in this film.
So much slobber invested at the start, discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.

No personalities, please, only slow motions going for the moody and not expected.

Standing in rain assumes moral delay. Now the sun is shining,
Nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual
Of our meaning it but not tempted like others. Some of you and me is there

And more ‘here we go,’ retreating to emancipating solitude,
More sound oriented as translucence flushes our keeping up

Adding up the lead time, keeping your eyes open, waiting, moving
On that panoptic sentence for the animal that needs you.

Anyway hipster
is a contradiction in terms.
In term’s a shortcut to prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster

throws out softballs,

variously literal — the power

system (it’s decentralized) semi

managed as yoga

mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up

the utility of lingerie,

discreet shipping, and in
this case soul

kings touching wood.

It won’t be serene.
The enlightened instant comes
to how this can be put together
surely, entirely.

What is pill as a verb..


Imprisoning refinement. Example? Adjunctship.
The curtain, with a curtain rod staff —


Having it, I’ve hobbled

Away like a mad scientist with a big dropper



Dreamily subsisting

Halfway into a loose state

Staying loose. The verb cuts you and your lineage off.
Now it’s later, good news tho

Since my mission is wait to listen,

Not empower blithe and highly egotistical boy girl men.
Two good words, highly too.

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

Willing directors bail out 10 decades. Tears.
Every frame has a did-it-for-retraction stench

Swimming
Unsynchronized.

As a narrator here, I’m no art fox, a swimming
Plateau = not finding hotter places to take on. You care?

One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to raise your rent.
Filament like A neap tide itemizes all bets.

And like beach safety overall — you can bring it back to the exterior.
It’s an hour from Nauset. Bail here.

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

Wes Craven, R.I.P.

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, hon.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)

Dr Who gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey went from one thing to another, came back.



As a guy I’m done with Malthus festivals’
Black sweaters in the woods,
Tented command centers for negotiation,
And I’ve had it with my thigh, the one you lift.