minimal ink satisfaction light
inside anxious
precise every syllable use
following each argument relation
encounter comma
effect not affect
completion or the inauguration
of juxtaposition
a single selection making
one's point on a page
under obtuse sentences period
a post-selective construction
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Begin with May Now Available
Please check out my book begin with may, a series of moments at Finishing Line Press and order a copy today!
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Free Shipping on all books ordered during May!
Friday, May 09, 2008
over the space of wood topped shimmers of thought
a grey paper lined with scratched unknown unanswered
today is not the day to (insert action verb here)
though one must recall the accumulation of seconds
in a lifetime
many days of coincidence march
or linger
one must recall every exposed desire laid out on naked concrete wondering around pieces of language never quite aimed in any direction, never quite passing the required levels of professional status. i am of two minds, each shaded in another color depending on weather, history, and the pursuit of any possible syntactic strategy
a grey paper lined with scratched unknown unanswered
today is not the day to (insert action verb here)
though one must recall the accumulation of seconds
in a lifetime
many days of coincidence march
or linger
one must recall every exposed desire laid out on naked concrete wondering around pieces of language never quite aimed in any direction, never quite passing the required levels of professional status. i am of two minds, each shaded in another color depending on weather, history, and the pursuit of any possible syntactic strategy
Monday, April 28, 2008
as each crystalized moment...no, each hard penny...or, the wet concrete soothes the fingernail of understanding (not understanding...something like paper covered balloons) ...you get the idea, which at least the words linger, wade through the drops of a monday, at or because of distance i can only link to the idea, virtually, not even an idea...no, a black-covered paper-back, inside of which, each line of which, pasted into my mind (visual-like, but closer to crude animation). between the drops i wonder how to kill the lyric...squirrell...digging away planting poems of roses in the sweet mud. imitating lines of sense and logical awareness. a posted letter arrives only in time for...spring.
Monday, March 10, 2008
reflected back or into
at this moment, instantly
dirt dug deep into a gap absence holed out from the land (land is dirt) from the earth (the whole planet, no just this space outside the window, floor to ceiling window, outside of which a big hole, before that there was some concrete sidewalk and grass and something else maybe that doesn't matter now b/c it doesn't exist... does it matter in memory whether there was a bench or a garbage can or who walked here and when once?). two holes, really, large and small, the former remains of or the potential for. a reconstruction in dreaming stages. in spring at least this dirt like mud or soft, spongy, saturate-able, with or without light applied appropriately.
a series of red-covered texts lines the walls opposite the inside of the large window and, i imagine, filled with the ideas for the construction of whole worlds (earths) of possible pieces of space (in dirt form).
dirt dug deep into a gap absence holed out from the land (land is dirt) from the earth (the whole planet, no just this space outside the window, floor to ceiling window, outside of which a big hole, before that there was some concrete sidewalk and grass and something else maybe that doesn't matter now b/c it doesn't exist... does it matter in memory whether there was a bench or a garbage can or who walked here and when once?). two holes, really, large and small, the former remains of or the potential for. a reconstruction in dreaming stages. in spring at least this dirt like mud or soft, spongy, saturate-able, with or without light applied appropriately.
a series of red-covered texts lines the walls opposite the inside of the large window and, i imagine, filled with the ideas for the construction of whole worlds (earths) of possible pieces of space (in dirt form).
Monday, February 25, 2008
in direction of our own vision
square orange practice a singular wooden misadjustment inkling ever toward marble founding foundational placed clearly around each moment, announced every minute speaking chamber she said willingly over and under each phrase, turned ever which way slightly and then something instigated, a curl, a turn, every particular timed flayed floating like a butterfly until the final knockout-- a shadow dances across the mat, making politics, calling out a name for determined and changing the metaphor of the glove, practical and enduring across each struggle or piece of rusted metal against skin
half-note
any display might advertise an indication, the grey against grey, atom-istic, level the distinction between, relation among or to: meter (poetry) beat (music), experiment with one or another, the logic(al) analogy
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
how you may hold many faces
in one hand
the style of performance revolves
around a curl of hair an aroma
lips moistened just
in time for
an entrance
or exit in to any variety of wardrobes
(hide in and among)
a curl of
style like sweet
silk laden lengthened hanging
from trees
or fingers
crossed
around the notes
break through
one gesture (re)peated
in one hand
the style of performance revolves
around a curl of hair an aroma
lips moistened just
in time for
an entrance
or exit in to any variety of wardrobes
(hide in and among)
a curl of
style like sweet
silk laden lengthened hanging
from trees
or fingers
crossed
around the notes
break through
one gesture (re)peated
Thursday, November 01, 2007
some old fiction or something
i'm going through some old work, thinking about compiling the various pieces of strange prose fiction or whatever genre you want to say, gathering things that came from somewhere and have otherwise sat around in the computer for some time... it's hard enough to publish strange poetry, what about strange prose... so i've just not thought much about sending much of this work out... i don't even know where to send it... though there are a few places that are a little less genre determinate such as Quarter After Eight... alas, the subtly implicit question, regarding how one does work one is inclined to do and also consider publishing as a necessary element to the ever getting a job situation, or, i'm tired of sending crap out only to get a multitude of crap rejections back in the mail... and i'm tired of the lectures on playing the game, being resilient and persistent, needing to have some connections in order to get work out there, whatever.... so here's a little ditty about mr. wilson:
Meatloaf is essentially interchangeable, with what? something thrown out entirely, silken and thank goodness for ever leaving the house getting away entirely and here we are burning teeth. cousin, watch out for cracked ice suddenly it may not be good not at all this time what is no good said obituary said this time we are searching for kindness. a woman she had mercy, walked the streets of mercy talked to the windows shopping for mercy thinking about how too many people are lacking these days lacking entirely. post: communion will be served at the 13th chime. Post: Mr. Wilson please report. Post: Lord have mercy. She sat down to feast, a brief intercession. Pray for me. Lead me to the light. To eat and a variety of blended vegetables. a variety. Thinking if only the stray thoughts were put down on paper. Thinking: Mr. Wilson ought not recover too quickly. Thinking of salvation and turning away from what she thought and flesh. Beyond vegetables. Mash potatoes. I was thinking of an after dinner fruity drink. Thinking of a rare species. It is not so wrong if it feels good. Intercess shock .. Post: these are the rules. Post: do not mix. She knows now that if Mr. Wilson arrives he will not drink wine. His eyes like Bella Legosi. She rewinds the tape, again. Mr. Wilson has not come this week. Yesterday she saw him on the street selling cigarettes. Last month he replaced light bulbs. Today he is to bring fresh bread. Post: Mr. Wilson? The dish is dirty. She looks over the newspaper in front of her. Cut into pieces. Sometimes an article. Sometimes a headline. Sometimes a word. Sometimes a photo. Sometimes a paragraph a block of prose. Sometimes she has cut through around into the text. Pieces of news paper moving around the table. Her hands over the pieces. Moving the pieces. Putting pieces together. Pulling them apart. Rearranging. The whole table becomes a newspaper puzzle. The dish is on the floor. Mr. Wilson is already aware of the events of the day. He only uses the newspaper for the floor. Puts it all over the floor. Opens pages and lays them out all over the floor from wall to wall. He will not bring a new newspaper. She knows all of the stories. Out of order. He will bring a cigarette. Lay it on the table. They will watch the cigarette. Moving around the text. Photos of people smoking. Not color photos. The newspaper is not USA Today. She is not sure what day in the U.S. is it. It is not today. Mr. Wilson did not come today. He is scheduled. Next week he will vote. She knows he will save a tree. Send someone to sit in the tree. He will compost. In his pocket. Carries extra newspaper in his pocket. She has a design of text. A newspaper crescent moon. A story about robbery. A shooting. Child abuse. Nestled in the curve a picture of a clown. At the circus. Last week the clowns left. They took their little cars and lollipops. The news is not always happy. She lifts her gaze from the crescent news. The curtains across the room are open slightly. Sunlight hits the red chair. Late afternoon sun. She has already eaten breakfast. The red chair flames. She remembers the popcorn from the circus. But not from last week. Mr. Wilson sold popcorn before he discovered cigarettes. Popcorn never lasts. Post: incoming message. Post: this is a public service announcement. Post: this station will play none of your favorite bands. One time Mr. Wilson won at checkers. He was born under a sign of luck. On the table, the star of david, in newsprint. Eventually it will be December. The sentences in the star were composed in July. A paragraph about a lost toddler. She walked from house to house. Rang doorbells. Her father was asleep. A sentence about the military in China. A headline: Local Cigarette Salesman Follows Clowns Out of Town. Mr. Wilson was not expected for diner in July. The circus hasn’t toured since 1976. Tomorrow each headline will paste itself into a perfect cube. She has solved each equation for the good of society. Soon it will all make sense, a particular order. Cutting the text into paragraphs into phrases cutting the words into letters. Cutting letters into dust. A pile of newspaper dust exactly n the middle of the table. Post: with a low tonight of 19 degrees. Post: no one ever really sleeps through the night. Post: where articulation intersects, I will find you, the story of the day.
Meatloaf is essentially interchangeable, with what? something thrown out entirely, silken and thank goodness for ever leaving the house getting away entirely and here we are burning teeth. cousin, watch out for cracked ice suddenly it may not be good not at all this time what is no good said obituary said this time we are searching for kindness. a woman she had mercy, walked the streets of mercy talked to the windows shopping for mercy thinking about how too many people are lacking these days lacking entirely. post: communion will be served at the 13th chime. Post: Mr. Wilson please report. Post: Lord have mercy. She sat down to feast, a brief intercession. Pray for me. Lead me to the light. To eat and a variety of blended vegetables. a variety. Thinking if only the stray thoughts were put down on paper. Thinking: Mr. Wilson ought not recover too quickly. Thinking of salvation and turning away from what she thought and flesh. Beyond vegetables. Mash potatoes. I was thinking of an after dinner fruity drink. Thinking of a rare species. It is not so wrong if it feels good. Intercess shock .. Post: these are the rules. Post: do not mix. She knows now that if Mr. Wilson arrives he will not drink wine. His eyes like Bella Legosi. She rewinds the tape, again. Mr. Wilson has not come this week. Yesterday she saw him on the street selling cigarettes. Last month he replaced light bulbs. Today he is to bring fresh bread. Post: Mr. Wilson? The dish is dirty. She looks over the newspaper in front of her. Cut into pieces. Sometimes an article. Sometimes a headline. Sometimes a word. Sometimes a photo. Sometimes a paragraph a block of prose. Sometimes she has cut through around into the text. Pieces of news paper moving around the table. Her hands over the pieces. Moving the pieces. Putting pieces together. Pulling them apart. Rearranging. The whole table becomes a newspaper puzzle. The dish is on the floor. Mr. Wilson is already aware of the events of the day. He only uses the newspaper for the floor. Puts it all over the floor. Opens pages and lays them out all over the floor from wall to wall. He will not bring a new newspaper. She knows all of the stories. Out of order. He will bring a cigarette. Lay it on the table. They will watch the cigarette. Moving around the text. Photos of people smoking. Not color photos. The newspaper is not USA Today. She is not sure what day in the U.S. is it. It is not today. Mr. Wilson did not come today. He is scheduled. Next week he will vote. She knows he will save a tree. Send someone to sit in the tree. He will compost. In his pocket. Carries extra newspaper in his pocket. She has a design of text. A newspaper crescent moon. A story about robbery. A shooting. Child abuse. Nestled in the curve a picture of a clown. At the circus. Last week the clowns left. They took their little cars and lollipops. The news is not always happy. She lifts her gaze from the crescent news. The curtains across the room are open slightly. Sunlight hits the red chair. Late afternoon sun. She has already eaten breakfast. The red chair flames. She remembers the popcorn from the circus. But not from last week. Mr. Wilson sold popcorn before he discovered cigarettes. Popcorn never lasts. Post: incoming message. Post: this is a public service announcement. Post: this station will play none of your favorite bands. One time Mr. Wilson won at checkers. He was born under a sign of luck. On the table, the star of david, in newsprint. Eventually it will be December. The sentences in the star were composed in July. A paragraph about a lost toddler. She walked from house to house. Rang doorbells. Her father was asleep. A sentence about the military in China. A headline: Local Cigarette Salesman Follows Clowns Out of Town. Mr. Wilson was not expected for diner in July. The circus hasn’t toured since 1976. Tomorrow each headline will paste itself into a perfect cube. She has solved each equation for the good of society. Soon it will all make sense, a particular order. Cutting the text into paragraphs into phrases cutting the words into letters. Cutting letters into dust. A pile of newspaper dust exactly n the middle of the table. Post: with a low tonight of 19 degrees. Post: no one ever really sleeps through the night. Post: where articulation intersects, I will find you, the story of the day.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
letters
old pieces, from an old piece of work, found and uncovered...
dear elle,
you told me a secret. you took your hat off. ask me.
dear elle,
i enjoy cheesy love songs. particularly those from 1979. to someone i mentioned your state of affairs. i sleep teal. it has been called a hard habit. the stucco in your voice signals a spot of closure. the end of a sentence. your knee covering spit. i tell you cover me up. history is not accurate. tame your wild vocals.
dear elle,
syntactical illusion. carry on a cup of wasting over into. push over a useless vocabulary. tell me, do you do the dew? in what state as of moment? the last sparks are dim and flaring lost. dead animals caught and choking into skeleton. overheard intimate language.
dear elle,
you told me a secret. you took your hat off. ask me.
dear elle,
i enjoy cheesy love songs. particularly those from 1979. to someone i mentioned your state of affairs. i sleep teal. it has been called a hard habit. the stucco in your voice signals a spot of closure. the end of a sentence. your knee covering spit. i tell you cover me up. history is not accurate. tame your wild vocals.
dear elle,
syntactical illusion. carry on a cup of wasting over into. push over a useless vocabulary. tell me, do you do the dew? in what state as of moment? the last sparks are dim and flaring lost. dead animals caught and choking into skeleton. overheard intimate language.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
pound – zukofsky – niedecker… a reading
niedecker:
My friend tree
I sawed you down
but I must attend
an older friend
the sun
pound:
1. direct treatment of the thing
2. to use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation
3. to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase
pound:
an ‘Image’ is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time
niedecker:
Well, spring overflows the land,
floods floor, pump, wash machine
of the woman moored to this low shore by deafness.
…
pound:
it is better to present one Image in a lifetime than to produce voluminous works
pound:
use no superfluous word, no adjective which does not reveal something
niedecker:
…
you water my worms
you patch my boot
with your mending kit
nothing in it
but my hand
pound:
do in fear of abstractions
pound:
use no ornament or good ornament
niedecker:
…
I worked the print shop
right down among em
the folk from whom all poetry flows
and dreadfully much else
…
What would they say if they knew
I sit for two months on six lines
of poetry?
pound:
there is in the best verse a sort of residue of sound which remains in the ear of the hearer
pound:
the experimental demonstrations of one man may save the time of many
niedecker:
Hear
where her snow-grave is
the You
ah you
of mourning doves
pound:
it will not try to seem forcible by rhetorical din, and luxurious riot. we will have fewer painted adjectives impeding the shock and stroke of it. I want it so, austere, direct, free from emotional slither
niedecker:
How white the gulls
in grey weather
Soon April
the little
yellows
zukofsky:
the lens bringing the rays from an object to a focus
that which is aimed at
desire for what is objectively perfect
inextricably the direction of historic and contemporary particulars
niedecker:
Popcorn-can cover
screwed to the wall
over a hole
so the cold
can’t mouse in
zukofsky:
that historic and contemporary particulars may mean a thing or things as well as an event or a chain of events
niedecker:
Lights, lifts
parts nicely opposed
this white
lice lithe
pink bird
zukofsky:
this rested totality may be called objectification
niedecker:
July, waxwings
on the berries
have dyed red
the dead
branch
zukofsky:
the implications are that a critic began as a poet, and that as a poet he had implicitly to be a critic
niedecker:
I’ve been away from poetry
many months
and now I must rake leaves
with nothing blowing
between your house
and mine
zukofsky:
a poem as an object…experienced…perfect rest…theologically perhaps… like the ineffable…the context…dealing with a world outside, inextricably the direction of historic and contemporary particulars…desire for what is objectively perfect…context based on a world…this object in process…the poem as a job…
niedecker:
My life is hung up
in the flood
a wave-blurred
portrait
Don’t fall in love
with this face—
it no longer exists
in water
we cannot fish
zukofsky:
a context associated with ‘musical’ shape
niedecker:
Now in one year
a book published
and plumbing—
took a lifetime
to weep
a deep
trickle
zukofsky:
intention must be distinguished from accomplishment which resolves the complexity of detail into a single object
niedecker:
…
We stayed till the stamens trembled
zukofsky:
(quotes contemporary American poet) a machine made of words
niedecker:
…
Leave me the land
Scratch out: the land
May prose and property both die out
and leave me peace
sources:
Ezra Pound, “A Retrospect”
Louis Zukofsky, “An Objective” and “A Statement for Poetry”
Lorine Niedecker, The Granite Pail, Ed. Cid Corman, 1996
My friend tree
I sawed you down
but I must attend
an older friend
the sun
pound:
1. direct treatment of the thing
2. to use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation
3. to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase
pound:
an ‘Image’ is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time
niedecker:
Well, spring overflows the land,
floods floor, pump, wash machine
of the woman moored to this low shore by deafness.
…
pound:
it is better to present one Image in a lifetime than to produce voluminous works
pound:
use no superfluous word, no adjective which does not reveal something
niedecker:
…
you water my worms
you patch my boot
with your mending kit
nothing in it
but my hand
pound:
do in fear of abstractions
pound:
use no ornament or good ornament
niedecker:
…
I worked the print shop
right down among em
the folk from whom all poetry flows
and dreadfully much else
…
What would they say if they knew
I sit for two months on six lines
of poetry?
pound:
there is in the best verse a sort of residue of sound which remains in the ear of the hearer
pound:
the experimental demonstrations of one man may save the time of many
niedecker:
Hear
where her snow-grave is
the You
ah you
of mourning doves
pound:
it will not try to seem forcible by rhetorical din, and luxurious riot. we will have fewer painted adjectives impeding the shock and stroke of it. I want it so, austere, direct, free from emotional slither
niedecker:
How white the gulls
in grey weather
Soon April
the little
yellows
zukofsky:
the lens bringing the rays from an object to a focus
that which is aimed at
desire for what is objectively perfect
inextricably the direction of historic and contemporary particulars
niedecker:
Popcorn-can cover
screwed to the wall
over a hole
so the cold
can’t mouse in
zukofsky:
that historic and contemporary particulars may mean a thing or things as well as an event or a chain of events
niedecker:
Lights, lifts
parts nicely opposed
this white
lice lithe
pink bird
zukofsky:
this rested totality may be called objectification
niedecker:
July, waxwings
on the berries
have dyed red
the dead
branch
zukofsky:
the implications are that a critic began as a poet, and that as a poet he had implicitly to be a critic
niedecker:
I’ve been away from poetry
many months
and now I must rake leaves
with nothing blowing
between your house
and mine
zukofsky:
a poem as an object…experienced…perfect rest…theologically perhaps… like the ineffable…the context…dealing with a world outside, inextricably the direction of historic and contemporary particulars…desire for what is objectively perfect…context based on a world…this object in process…the poem as a job…
niedecker:
My life is hung up
in the flood
a wave-blurred
portrait
Don’t fall in love
with this face—
it no longer exists
in water
we cannot fish
zukofsky:
a context associated with ‘musical’ shape
niedecker:
Now in one year
a book published
and plumbing—
took a lifetime
to weep
a deep
trickle
zukofsky:
intention must be distinguished from accomplishment which resolves the complexity of detail into a single object
niedecker:
…
We stayed till the stamens trembled
zukofsky:
(quotes contemporary American poet) a machine made of words
niedecker:
…
Leave me the land
Scratch out: the land
May prose and property both die out
and leave me peace
sources:
Ezra Pound, “A Retrospect”
Louis Zukofsky, “An Objective” and “A Statement for Poetry”
Lorine Niedecker, The Granite Pail, Ed. Cid Corman, 1996
Friday, September 21, 2007
on a friday
display
a crane, moving, industrial
behind a billboard
in front of the printed
architecture
of city
scape
not an e
scape
but haze
mutes silver
buildings
late september view
of heat
holding fast
to the notion of a space
surrounding
or in a place
like something that doesn't belong
in the desert
a crane, moving, industrial
behind a billboard
in front of the printed
architecture
of city
scape
not an e
scape
but haze
mutes silver
buildings
late september view
of heat
holding fast
to the notion of a space
surrounding
or in a place
like something that doesn't belong
in the desert
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
contemporary art in brazil
went here today in person... one of the best possible museums...
it is work from artists from all over, including but not limited to brazil, and the setting and atmosphere is amazing and fabulous...
http://www.inhotim.org.br
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
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