Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Up coming reading

if you are in Baltimore or Cambridge... I am reading at the following places.

Saturday, March 4th, 4 pm
with Tim Davis & Rupert Wondolwski
Clayton & Co. Fine Books
317 N. Charles Street
Clayton & Co. Fine Books

Friday, March 10th, (pm)
cambridge, MA
160 Prospect St.
Demolicious reading seris

Mina Loy

Apology of Genius

Ostracized as we are with God
The watchers of the civilized wastes
reverse their signals on our track
Lepers of the moon
all magically diseased
we come among you
of our luminous sores
how perturbing lights
our spirit
on the passion of Man
until you turn on us your smooth fools' faces
like buttocks bared in aboriginal mockeries
We are the sacerdotal clowns
who feed upon the wind and stars
and pulverous pastures of poverty
Our wills are formed
by curious disciplines
beyond your laws
You may give birth to us
or marry us
the chances of your flesh
are not our destiny ---
The cuirass of the soul
still shines ---
And we are unaware
if you confuse
such brief
corrosion with possession
In the raw caverns of the Increate
we forge the dusk of Chaos
to that imperious jewellery of the Universe
--- the Beautiful ---
While to your eyes
A delicate crop
of criminal mystic immortelles
stands to the censor's scythe.

From: Mina Loy's Lunar Odyssey

For Zizek, clarity rules film, philosophy, By Damon Smith, Globe Correspondent

sucking air

walking up after walking up after
an artificial anti-depressive smile
walks up individually wrapped cheese
individually walking up
freezing not unlike a lisp
stammering and stuttering to stay warm
uncountried constantly under flag
freezing trying to walkup
flanked blanked out by
heads in cars
bodies in malls
stammering house moments
stretched form from here to
freezing next to the next next individually wrapped
ignored historical fragments
next to doritos nacho cheese
and cool ranch next to
... doritos reduced fat nacho cheesier
flavored next to the natural white nacho cheese
next to a newer
50 kinds of frozen fragments
frozen for more time
more cheese
hermetically sealed
barley warm
badly blurred homeless
positions away from action
liberally liberal words away from form
not there articles on freezing
but word boxes
fill in the blank
not so much capital
crumbling cracking walls
for a bigger broader coalition
sucking wounds
crumbling walls
sucking air
frozen individually wrapped
the empire continues
stretches meaning
the stupidity of what happens
again in time
frozen individually wrapped
next to a newer call for sucking words
individually wrapped next to
sucking air and froozen cheese

Monday, February 27, 2006

The Unbosoming by Olena Kalytiak Davis

I have been a day boarder, Lord. I have preferred
the table to the Bed.

I have proffered, Lord, and I have profited,
Lord, but little, but not. I was Bored,

Lord, I was heavy, Lord. Heavy bored.
Hopeless, Lord, hideous, Lord. Sexless.

I was in love, Lord, but not with You.
The nine malic moulds, Lord.

The butcher, the baker, the under-taker.
Lord, I was taken under. I Repeat

Myself, Lord. I re-peat myself as the way back,
the way back to Myself,

Lord. I have trembled, Lord. His face,
Lord, and Yours. I am unlovely, Lord, I am

Not precious, Lord. Spy better, Love, and You will see:
I am nothing. I have Seen

How lovely, Lord, how lovely You are, Lord,
but I refused to kneel. I Refuse

To knell Your loveliness. I refuse to kiss.
And I refuse to tell. I am unwilling, Love.

I am unwell. Unkempt. My hideous loins, Love.
My body, which is all Wrack

And screw, Love. All slack and crewel.
At Your beck and call, Love, at His Beck

And call. Crestfallen, Love. Of the fallen breast.
Un-clean of eye. Loose of Thigh.

Ridiculous, Love. Most serious, Love. Unshod. Unshriven.
In vain and in Rain,

Love. I live and I Wire. I Wive, Lord, but I Fathom Not.

From: Ploughshares

More: Olena Kalytiak Davis

Octavia Butler, brilliant master of sci-fi, dies at 58

For more than 30 years, Seattle science-fiction novelist Octavia Butler dreamed up fantastic worlds and religions, made-up creatures and futuristic plots. Then, in her stylistic prose, she used them to tackle the social issues she was most passionate about.

"Parable of the Talents," a futuristic story about a utopian community ravaged by civil war, explored modern-day issues of intolerance, the growing gap between rich and poor, and environmentalism. In her first novel, "Kindred," she plunged into racial issues when a modern-day character was transported into the body of a pre-Civil War slave.

"What [Ms. Butler] was writing for the first time was a kind of woman's-eye view, a very smart woman's-eye view, of say, 'Brave New World' or '1984,' " said writer Harlan Ellison, Ms. Butler's friend and mentor.

Ms. Butler died Friday at Northwest Hospital after a fall at her home in Lake Forest Park. She was 58.

Colder set of rules

late in the cold
to cold for water
not work or word
wrath comes from comic relief
the water gone
made to fit
permeated by pharmaceutical panacea
gone cold to
many splattered remains
to this and this
and this is the solution to this
dirt floor
ghost village
reduced to rubble
the definition rape
by desperate people
is longer cold
recently instituted

I have a degenerate option
50 types
50 version
bottled water from
each crevice
another village compromise
in later episodes
recorded heart-souls
of the dead
boxed next to
box cake for the masses
along side boxed god
conversation ice cream
always about to happen
bloody clothes mistaken
for middle ages prints

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Regina Derieva

I Don't Feel At Home Where I Am

I don't feel at home where I am,

or where I spend time; only where,

beyond counting, there's freedom and calm,

that is, waves, that is, space where, when there,

you consist of pure freedom, which, seen,

turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone,

to pebbles and sand . . . where life's mean-

ing lies buried, that never let one

come within cannon shot yet.

From cloud-covered wells untold

pour color and light, a fete

of cupids and Ledas in gold.

That is, silk and honey and sheen.

That is, boon and quiver and call.

That is, all that lives to be free,

needing no words at all.

Regina Derieva

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Raoul Vaneigem

The Revolution of Everyday Life: The Reversal of Perspective

In this fractured world, whose common denominator throughout history has been hierarchical social power, only one freedom has ever been tolerated: the freedom to change the numerator, the freedom to prefer one master to another. Freedom of choice so understood has increasingly lost its attraction -- especially since it became the official doctrine of the worst totalitarianisms of the modern world, East and West. The generalization of the refusal to make such a Hobson's choice -- to do no more than change employers -- has in turn occasioned a restructuring of State power. All the governments of the industrialized or semi-industrialized world now tend to model themselves -- after a single prototype: the common aim is to rationalize, to 'automate', the old forms of domination. And herein lies freedom's first chance. The bourgeois democracies have clearly shown that individual freedoms can be tolerated only insofar as they entrench upon and destroy one another; now that this is clear, it has become impossible for any government, no matter how sophisticated, to wave the muleta of freedom without everyone discerning the sword concealed behind it. In fact the constant evocation of freedom merely incites freedom to rediscover its roots in individual creativity, to break out of its official definition as the permitted the licit, the tolerable -- to shatter the benevolence of despotism.


Michael Lally

all the forbidden fruit I ever

dreamt of--or was taught to

resist and fear--ripens and

blossoms under the palms of my

hands as they uncover and explore

you--and in the most secret

corners of my heart as it discovers

and adores you--the forbidden fruit

of forgiveness--the forbidden fruit

of finally feeling the happiness More @ Plagiarist.com

Things keep falling

Things keep falling
the morning keeps falling
infinite fatigue gives way to
the standby dumb watchers
watch the water disappear

I cannot think
my head a place
from the hunks
that fall from the sky
while flocks of banners
battle on
through boiling river cries
and rocks of deserts
yet to come

a final lapse into
another following
another reapproach
a final lapse into
I do not know what
returning to another
I am not sure I want to know
an otherwise all too real
too real
instantly retrieved
over burdened
conceived in freedom
a few minutes
a life time

Friday, February 24, 2006

Hagop Norashkharian (Norouni) (1923-1985)

To Live

To live,
In order to see,
In order to touch, to breathe
Nature's noble, colorful
Beauty inexhaustible!

To live,
In order to watch,
To marvel, to overcome
The feminine caresses,
Like holy bread of hashish...

To live,
To be sacrificed,
To show fondness, to adore
Her, who will give just for you
Her life without reckoning... 

To live,
In order to share
The hero's joy and sorrow,
To celebrate together
The victory born of fire...

To live,
And to live yet still
Just for you my precious one,
You who will come from the clouds
Warmly to lean on my chest...

All poems are from The Future of My Years, , Yerevan, 1982

Through eyelids gritty from weariness

meandering through perhaps
excruciating, extraordinary, decentering,
biting reminders of dust
personality encroachments
hurling clatter branches
suspended distortion
swallowing life's last days
admiring Pleiades
mathematical annulments
matter for one more
something bright
glittering idiot
wanderer to take pity
wanting one more
someone to sit with
one more morning
that comes again
with its
white wall darkness
blood glass distortions
successive projectiles
burning real assumed
superior nothing
leaking, living, touching
like leather because
self conscious real
with a real ending dead
goes, someone loves someone
there is impartial praying
for one last
I have been a rational
excrete within
a thriving preface
citizen of a dead-end world
putting up storm windows

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Caroline Bergvall: Excerpt from GOAN ATOM (part 1)


Enters the EVERY HOST

dragging a badl Eg

Finally !

So that the inspiration for such thoughts

becomes visible through the navel in order

To take advantage of the interior mechanism

run through the thoughts retained of little girls

as a panorama deep in the belly

revealed by multicoloured electric


it’s roped in bottoms up I want to

B ba

b bo

b be

b leed

the load



Mud and Dead

the mud offal the dead (more.... @ This is Jacket 12)

I was looking at the ceiling

eyes open eyes
the place
slight end of . . .
this side of . . .
mental thread of . . .
up from
an objective presences
needing watching
to watch the eyes
that surround
the tired sound of
utopias crumbing
crowded hungry
remains of the same
someone engages
with someone
the answers
comes from
an exchange
comes from
a response
a response of
accountable accountability
an always sense of something
reveling everything
concealing nothing
and yet
a secrets remains behind
builds up over time
producing a chill
producing another over time
technique stuck on nothing
a body with no possibly
a production unit
stuck on a blank
body between
and species being
being between the limits of
the early roots of legality
and the later
in a wink of eternity
a laughing here after
an occupation of terror
an earthy shore
narrow dark whispered naked
lost memories
lost in a dream repair
at the slight end of life
that made machines
that drove over the rest



The submission deadline for GALATEA RESURRECTS' inaugural issue is Feb. 25. It can slip a couple of days if you alert me ahead of time so I can still make space for it.

The submission deadline for the second issue is May 5, 2006.

Please see prior post for more information. Thanks for your interest!

Alfian Bin Sa'at

The Merlion

"I wish it had paws," you said,

"It's quite grotesque the way it is,
you know, limbless; can you
imagine it writhing in the water,
like some post-Chernobyl nightmare?
I mean, how does it move? Like a
torpedo? Or does it shoulder itself
against the currents, gnashing with frustration,
its furious mane bleached
the colour of a drowned sun?
But take a second look at it,
how it is poised so terrestrially,
marooned on this rough shore,
as if unsure of its rightful
harbour. Could it be that,
having taken to this unaccustomed limpidity,
it has decided to abandon the seaweed-haunted
depths for land? Perhaps it is even ashamed
(But what a bold front!)
to have been a creature of the sea; look at how
it tries to purge itself of its aquatic ancestry,
in this ceaseless torrent of denial, draining
the body of rivers of histories, lymphatic memories.
What a riddle, this lesser brother of the Sphinx.
What sibling polarity, how its sister's lips are sealed
with self-knowledge and how its own jaws
clamp open in self-doubt, still
surprised after all these years."

"Yet...what brand new sun can dry
the iridescent slime from the scales
and what fresh rain wash the sting of salt
from those chalk-blind eyes?" (more...)

Alfian Bin Sa'at: An Overview

real things

things fall
failing in a land
designed to consume
my pen fails
filing flight plans
from witness pushing
to electrical poor
those civil controlled
hidden stretches
dim and considered unfinished
boiled down
life abstrastions
digging prepaid graves
smearing perfect color
over road side disappointments
surrounded by motels
and real things taking up
real space


{readings that play with reading}
sunday, february 26, 7:00pm
the spareroom,
2416 west north avenue
Chicago, Il
$3 suggested donation

Nathalie Stephens
Jeff Marlin
and "in absentia"
Lise Beaudry
kari edwards
Brane Mozetic
Benny Nemerofksy Ramsay


Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)


Come, my poor heart, come, old friend true and tried,

Repaint your triumph's arches, raised anew;
Smoke tinsel altars with stale incense; strew
Flowers before the chasm, gaping wide;
Come, my poor heart, come, old friend true and tried.

Cantor revivified, sing God your hymn;
Hoarse organ-pipes, intone Te Deums proud;
Make up your aging face, youth wrinkle-browed;
Bedeck yourself in gold, wall yellow-dim;
Cantor revivified, sing God your hymn.

Ring, bells; peal, chimes; peal, ring, bells large and small!
My hopeless dream takes shape: for Happiness--
Here, now--lies clutched, embraced in my caress;
Winged Voyager, who shuns Man's every call;
--Ring, bells; peal, chimes; peal, ring, bells large and small!

Happiness once walked side by side with me;
But DOOM knows no reprieve, there's no mistaking:
The worm is in the fruit; in dreaming, waking;
In loving, mourning. And so must it be.
--Happiness once walked side by side with me.


and more - Paul Verlaine

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Samuel Johnson. 1709–1784


LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty,
  Ling'ring year, at length is flown:
Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,
  Great . . . . . . ., are now your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
  Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather,
  Bid the sons of thrift farewell.
Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies,
  All the names that banish care;
Lavish of your grandsire's guineas,
  Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly
  Joy to see their quarry fly:
There the gamester, light and jolly,

  There the lender, grave and sly.
Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,
  Let it wander as it will;
Call the jockey, call the pander,
  Bid them come and take their fill.

When the bonny blade carouses,
  Pockets full, and spirits high—
What are acres? What are houses?
  Only dirt, or wet or dry.
Should the guardian friend or mother
  Tell the woes of wilful waste,
Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;—
  You can hang or drown at last!
From:  Eighteenth-Century E-Texts

Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) - Byname Dr. Johnson

Henry's terror flight

on all the time

when a small fragment is is
when a dream is is is
as if when is a is a is dream dream
a kind of
stop action visual let’s begin again
a kind of dream dream is a is
let’s stop the stop stop the stop stop the now stop
in this now object making marking the bottom dollar
as if a kind of making marking
sometimes on film making marking
a grande scale spoken line small fragment spoken graphic small line graphic novel spoken idea spoken image small word spoken fragment structure graphic spoken on a on a spoken graphic spoken on a
built on a oh grid overlapping a reiterating repeating
with less and less words to mean
to mean someone's got the ring
because flying through space
shining so bright
to mean so so
it begins in small fragments
one moment ago
somewhere a war continues
somewhere the war wages on
somewhere the war because space made space
unto the grid on a graphic structure
spoken in words
meaning less not that at all
beginning when a small fragment is is alphabetical, antibacterial, antidotal, antifungal
when thirst and vomit
when thirst and vomiting
when assuming an action
is an action as an action on the minute
somehow more or less
this or this
50 kinds of assuming actions
super action
I‘ve got the whole thing in m my hand in my pocket in my ear
being before an after
on all the time on all the time
suggesting of an opportunity
on all the time
that may lead to lead to that opportunity that may lead to an opportunity
on all the time on all the time

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Saturday, February 18, 2006

on the way

when you come
the shore in the bay
when you come
rocks pass by
knotting knitting in the bay
when you come
shoring the bay
storms on the way
when you come
storms on the way
when you rocks in the bay
when you come
storm on the way
rocks on the way
when the comes
pray knitting all the way
the story ends
the paper ends
the day
on the way
rock in the bay
packaged cheese
storm on the way
on the way
next in line
on the way
past a rock
next,past the next
on the way
scrambled eggs
beakless chickens
on the way
rock on the sea
on the way
more of one
kinds of certainty
in the way
on the way
when you come
on the way

Friday, February 17, 2006

Barbara Guest (1920-2006)

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Rob Halpern

Check out the following poem by Rob Halpern @ A Tonalist Notes where he engages in some of the ideas in Robert Duncan's “essay in essential autobiography”


Let me give you an illusion of not grieving.


[the place of future action
— being choked inside a tube]

being a question of place, and it always is—

so vehicular and roomy where my feet are
tanks arrived inside this way of picturing
tall things go on lurching — limbs macerate
in parks, counter the impossible tense

of our own white floors imputing unrelated
bodies extracted by the thousands, amassing
in a vault — more...

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Subjunctive rearticulation project

please no more answer thing pleasure in the billion word nothingness life universal proposition in a prayer thing, sitting in nothing, doing nothing all day long, hoping for the big stuff baby to land right on your door step unannounced.

no more over greatness with an ever over greater over greater apparatus thing in a box stuff game, getting bigger than big every single day reflecting the flicker mind, on and off every second second

please, please, please try to remember to refuse the surface response memory of the all-in-all thing codes of a dog cow grazing thing in the midday sun shinning off the nonattachment grass blowin’ in the wind, happens only once in a life time, only to become a memory photo, essay on this side of poem, in the hall of everything becoming tomorrow ‘s dust in the mouth from the car that just passed you, going faster than fast going nowhere

so let us stop, just for one moment and listen to the sharp triangulation in unheard still winds remembering the earths primordial cry, orbiting the next day’s dream eruption, reflecting light time, water time, and the first day landing on land time, going so slow, breathing so hard, passing quickly to genocide epistemology time held in a collective paragraph, marking other’s other parentheses of other’s forgetting everyone's hand is on the machete, never mentioning the now mentioned, untouchable, blood letting, just to prove it can be done again and again.

and again in the usual word place, can we please, please, watch the thing or whatever name you call it thing that slowly breaks the finger, moves along the body, recording codes, repeating to someone for some kind of salvation, there is no other question, other than the one hundred billion billion billion continuous conditions bemoaning the heart, lung, body, held together in the morning quarrel, cool misty pasture, living dying, trying to find the pleasure in everything in the moment, right there laying on the street staring up to the sky, waiting for someone, anyone to pause for one moment more than the usual not enough right now, thank you for putting your starvation hand in my face, but I have way too much to do to pay attention to anything right now, thank you.

Linda M. Montano

December 8, 1984 - December 8, 1998

7 YEARS OF LIVING ART is a time-based, endurance/performance which focuses the mind in a directed way so that art becomes a vehicle for meditation. Wearing one color of clothing each year that corresponds to the color of a specific Chakra (Hindu energy system), I was able to stay attentive to my intention. That is, to train the mind not to wander, shop around, or buy into the millions of distractions that impinge minute-to-minute.

This performance is actually an experience borrowed from Hindu theology which states that there are seven nerve plexuses, or nerve centers, on the spinal column which correspond to body parts, body areas, inner psychological qualities and subtle energies. In a Christian analysis by Caroline Myss (1), the Chakras and Seven Sacraments are linked, allowing for a dialogue between Yoga and Catholicism.

Brion Gysin

Language is an abominable misunderstanding which makes up a part of matter. The painters and the physicists have treated matter pretty well. The poets have hardly touched it. In March 1958, when I was living at the Beat Hotel, I proposed to Burroughs to at least make available to literature the means that painters have been using for fifty years. Cut words into pieces and scramble them. You'll hear someone draw a bow-string. Who runs may read, To read better, practice your running. Speed is entirely up to us, since machines have delivered us from the horse. Henceforth the question is to deliver us from that other so-called superior animal, man. It's not worth it to chase out the merchants: their temple is dedicated to the unsuitable lie of the value of the Unique. The crime of separation gave birth to the idea of the Unique which would not be separate. In painting, matter has seen everything: from sand to stuffed goats. Disfigured more and more, the image has been geometrically multiplied to a dizzying degree. A snow of advertising could fall from the sky, and only collector babies and the chimpanzees who make abstract paintings would bother to pick one up.

Brion Gysin (1916-1986) | UbuWeb

Brion Gysin's Dream Machine

Monday, February 13, 2006

Subjunctive rearticulation project

I tired to imagine the other day waiting wanting to be someone somewhere else away from praying hand land, consumed by that everything somewhere else, that everything modern, everything sticky with too much residue. Thinking formless bodies attached, afloat, fearful here, checking thinking at the door or checking thinking on thing investment at the door, animation’s demand turbulence brought down by formless dark options, bloodless bodies self born enterprise, asking is there a deferred, not able to be placed already too much summarized, attached to something that exceeds the present unthinking to imagine? Is it of course, unthinkable, ending in death of the body, the different ways different things are released beyond themselves, beyond jackhammer rhythms, beyond unnamable lurking bodies hidden in bodies . . . and the whimpering sobbing surrender of senseless sentences forgetting whatever people, thinking a place makes sense, a bullet through the head, makes a place, makes something imagined unimaginable, sticky and fearful. Imagine another day consumer consumed by somewhere else's consuming something else formless and detached, imagining somewhere eles.

J.H. Prynne

Rich in Vitamin C

Under her brow the snowy wing-case
      delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
          past loose glass in the door
      into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
      darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
      the baltic loved one who sleeps.
Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
      the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch's wit, this flush
      scattered over our slant of the
          day rocked in water, you say
      this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
          the purpose we really cut;
      an ounce down by the water, which
 MORE @J A C K E T  # 6

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Subjunctive rearticulation project

someone said
could not happen
it happens
the other day
a million times
someone died
a million times
our tupperware atmosphere dies
without fear or thought
twilight dims
hatchback idealism
bounces from ouija board
to zodiac killer
from I ching to magik 8 ball
yes, we have a winner
miracles today
call 1-800- complete resignation
drunk banality
prays for insight
anything to stop this
crown of thorn conquest
nobly and remote
keeps happening
canned in cigarettes and ice investments
for a future shipped
coming soon to a spot
an orgy of dead animal remains
that is not
but is already
standing in a vague burning
terrified unstable
a million times
just happed


From The Bridge: Atlantis

Through the bound cable strands, the arching path
Upward, veering with light, the flight of strings,—
Taut miles of shuttling moonlight syncopate
The whispered rush, telepathy of wires.
Up the index of night, granite and steel—
Transparent meshes—fleckless the gleaming staves—
Sibylline voices flicker, waveringly stream
As though a god were issue of the strings ....

And through that cordage, threading with its call
One arc synoptic of all tides below—
Their labyrinthine mouths of history
Pouring reply as though all ships at sea
Complighted in one vibrant breath made cry,—
“Make thy love sure—to weave whose song we ply!”
—From black embankments, moveless soundings hailed,
So seven oceans answer from their dream.

Subjunctive rearticulation project

A company builds a rice mill, builds a road, begins tax imprisonment programs to increase surplus limits, everything is contaminated, the frontier is closed till further notice. An extraordinary order is framed around evolution and around progress. Both are led by limitless desire, both have different word functions. God leads one to the final solution, the other imprisoned in matter by god. The other, inconsistent and blind, tries to find a new term for an old habit the other lives in old habits and built on new terms for old patterns. Both form names for norms of a different shaky defined righteous surrender to a better tomorrow, a finer future for a new world order, united on all fronts, stomping out disapproved undesirables. All in the name of bigger better theaters, malls, and welcome center namesake production quotas, full time employment by definition, all under a cover of quilted protection, meaning blood, meaning drunk on the street pleading for a lucky lottery of any kind.

Samuel Beckett


to and fro in shadow from inner to outer shadow

from impenetrable self to impenetrable unself
by way of neither

as between two lit refuges whose doors once
neared gently close, once away turned from
gently part again

beckoned back and forth and turned away
heedless of the way, intent on the one gleam
or the other

unheard footfalls only sound
till at last halt for good, absent for good
from self and other

then no sound
then gently light unfading on that unheeded

unspeakable home

The Samuel Beckett Endpage

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Subjunctive rearticulation project

Exposed to a potential body, exposed constantly exposed,, broken to bits to prove death is necessary to expose deaths limits. Choosing the most logical answer, someone said, “do not do this.” someone else said, “ do not presume screaming one more time will prove anything.” Will one more time prove, diverted broken bodies to bits, to form another lonesome opinion particle of dust, only to claim another relapse of something between multiple coauthored history and another official displacement, between a counter-sentence and grotesquely misplaced something, measured in the name of good, blown to bits to prove, wounded by bullets, disfigured by rumor, crippled by falling lies, in a state of the state of euthanasia, choosing the most logical question to prove, what is the correct program? What is the correct proportion of rice? And what is that something between portion and program? what is that something plies in vain, tears in what suits assumption’s days of days of moods and modulations, linked to fantasies hidden blindness, full of strife and bitter endings? What is a body that can be a body not constantly exposed, blown to bits?

shameless self promotion

MiPOesias Magazine
Volume 20, Issue 2 Contributors:


Yves Klein

The Chelsea Hotel Manifesto

Due to the fact that I have painted monochromes for fifteen years,

Due to the fact that I have created pictorial immaterial states,

Due to the fact that I have manipulated the forces of the void,

Due to the fact that I have sculpted with fire and with water and have painted with fire and with water,

Due to the fact that I have painted with living brushes — in other words, the nude body of live models covered with paint: these living brushes were under the constant direction of my commands, such as "a little to the right; over to the left now; to the right again, etc." By maintaining myself at a specific and obligatory distance from the surface to be painted, I am able to resolve the problem of detachment. more... @ Yves Klein's Archives Website

Friday, February 10, 2006


WHAT is patriotism? Is it love of one's birthplace, the place of childhood's recollections and hopes, dreams and aspirations? Is it the place where, in childlike naivety, we would watch the fleeting clouds, and wonder why we, too, could not run so swiftly? The place where we would count the milliard glittering stars, terror-stricken lest each one "an eye should be," piercing the very depths of our little souls? Is it the place where we would listen to the music of the birds, and long to have wings to fly, even as they, to distant lands? Or the place where we would sit at mother's knee, enraptured by wonderful tales of great deeds and conquests? In short, is it love for the spot, every inch representing dear and precious recollections of a happy, joyous, and playful childhood?

If that were patriotism, few American men of today could be called upon to be patriotic, since the place of play has been turned into factory, mill, and mine, while deafening sounds of machinery have replaced the music of the birds. Nor can we longer hear the tales of great deeds, for the stories our mothers tell today are but those of sorrow, tears, and grief.

What, then, is patriotism? "Patriotism, sir, is the last resort of scoundrels," said Dr. Johnson. Leo Tolstoy, the greatest anti-patriot of our times, defines patriotism as the principle that will justify the training of wholesale murderers; a trade that requires better equipment for the exercise of man-killing than the making of such necessities of life as shoes, clothing, and houses; a trade that guarantees better returns and greater glory than that of the average workingman. more....

Emma Goldman: Patriotism: A Menace to Liberty, From the 1917 edition of Emma Goldman's Anarchism and Other Essays

Looking to the Left: Politics in the Art of Barbara Kruger and Jenny Holzer, by Jenni Drozdek

In the exhibition catalogue Art and Ideology, feminist art critic Lucy Lippard claimed that all art is ideological and that artists “who remain stubbornly uninformed about the social and emotional effects of their images and their connections to other images outside the art context are more easily manipulated by the prevailing systems of distribution, interpretation, and marketing.”[2]  If Lippard’s statement is correct, Barbara Kruger and Jenny Holzer are exempt from her categorization, given that throughout their careers both artists have manipulated Lippard’s aforementioned systems to spread their messages within the public arena.  While Kruger surveys advertising systems and (re)presents images in order to expose and question power structures, Holzer utilizes an anonymous voice to send messages of authority to the public.  Although they use different media and methods of dissemination, a leftist agenda pervades these artists’ messages.

From: Kritikos: an international and interdisciplinary journal of postmodern cultural sound, text and image

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Subjunctive rearticulation project

I can not begin to know
producing difference by deferring
second third person construction
in the first third person narrative
promising surrender to the dead
acknowledging, I am an unknown participant
something maybe, something blind
consuming scarcity
producing hunger
gender constructed child
breathing markers
making someone something
scapegoat instance
another perfect occasion
construction of a sentence
as a common sense sentence
out of a many different blank accounts
apparently to produce
a final outcome
newspaper flyspeck
on the edge of an abstract noun
sliding to affirmation and prayer
speaking of poverty
in an industrial word
industry in a poverty stricken world
where the lakes, rivers and oceans
are no longer where the lakes, rivers and oceans
where in the beginning
mud covered by death
in the end
hunger covered by death
that is made of mud
that lives in our body
searches for holiday camps
for the spiritually
slowly dissolving
unconscious foundations
into another foundation
making prayer
making walls
driven by intelligence
generating forms by
generating form
by creative design
unlearning exclusion
monetary reward
for transcendental workshops
on monetary rewards
for the transcendental
prayer wall
driven by intelligent design
producing the wheel
my own personal
distinct division
functioning with best regards
with a limited engagement
this time otherwise individual
other wise knowing other wise
not knowing
another other
limited by death
desire and
deep unacknowledged incapacity
producing a body else where
in the first second and third person
another, otherwise attempt
to produce another attempt
at not producing another
otherwise million rounds
of corrective pity, shame
and tenure entrenchment
hoping for a something
better come faster
sooner than something
driven by intelligence

Antonin Artaud


If I believe neither in Evil nor in Good, if I feel such a strong inclination to destroy, if there is nothing in the order of principles to which I can reasonably accede, the underlying reason is in my flesh.
I destroy because for me everything that proceeds from reason is untrustworthy. I believe only in the evidence of what stirs my marrow, not in the evidence of what addresses itself to my reason. I have found levels in the realm of the nerve.more.....

Antonin Artaud | UbuWeb Sound
Artaud biography rages around Paris Artaud biography, by Moe Spencer

from The Nerve Meter, Diary from Hell, and Situation of the Flesh at The Spirit and Flesh Sacred Texts Online Library

"I have aspired no further than the clockwork of the soul, I have transcribed only the pain of an abortive adjustment.

I am a total abyss. Those who believe me capable of a whole pain, a beautiful pain, a dense and fleshy anguish, an anguish which is a mixture of objects, an effervescent grinding of forces rather than a suspended point.

-and yet with restless, uprooting impulses which come from the confrontation of my forces with these abysses of offered finality ...

and there is nothing left but the voluminous abysses, the immobility, the cold-

in short, those who attributed to me more life, who thought me at an earlier stage in the fall of the self, who believed me immersed in a tormented noise, in a violent darkness with which I struggled

-are lost in the shadows of a man. ...

Wednesday, February 08, 2006



The wandering is over,
and the road
is an adoring rock.
Here we are,
burying the corpse of the day,
draped in the winds of tragedy.
But tomorrow we shall shake
the trunks of the forest of palms.
And tomorrow we shall wash
the body of the slender god
with the blood of the thunderbolt,
and construct the tenuous lines
between our eyelids and the road.

Subjunctive rearticulation project

behind the curtain demands
for mysterious somethings
vaccine in the wants department
with no relative
out of reach
not this
more like that

the deadened privilege
of idealism
plants a name place
for channel matters
a medium heaven
a listless
stirred string eternity

far removed from
the broken wayside
countless gashes
guzzling blood from the plague
lubricated by salvation
seeking an all obsessive sole
away from the concept
total extinction

there in the palace
a strict theory of idealism appears
in an everlasting bland prayer

South gate at mandu

H. D.

Sheltered Garden

I have had enough.
I gasp for breath.

Every way ends, every road,
every foot-path leads at last
to the hill-crest--
then you retrace your steps,
or find the same slope on the other side,

I have had enough--
border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs, sweet-cress.

O for some sharp swish of a branch--
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent--
only border on border of scented pinks.

Have you seen fruit under cover
that wanted light--
pears wadded in cloth,
protected from the frost,
melons, almost ripe,
smothered in straw?

Why not let the pears cling
to the empty branch?
All your coaxing will only make
a bitter fruit--
let them cling, ripen of themselves,
test their own worth,
nipped, shrivelled by the frost,
to fall at last but fair
With a russet coat.

Or the melon--
let it bleach yellow
in the winter light,
even tart to the taste--
it is better to taste of frost--
the exquisite frost--
than of wadding and of dead grass.

For this beauty,
beauty without strength,
chokes out life.
I want wind to break,
scatter these pink-stalks,
snap off their spiced heads,
fling them about with dead leaves--
spread the paths with twigs,
limbs broken off,
trail great pine branches,
hurled from some far wood
right across the melon-patch,
break pear and quince--
leave half-trees, torn, twisted
but showing the fight was valiant.

O to blot out this garden
to forget, to find a new beauty
in some terrible
wind-tortured place.

H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) Home page

Joseph Brodsky

A list of some observation...

A list of some observation. In a corner, it's warm.
A glance leaves an imprint on anything it's dwelt on.
Water is glass's most public form.
Man is more frightening than its skeleton.
A nowhere winter evening with wine. A black
porch resists an osier's stiff assaults.
Fixed on an elbow, the body bulks
like a glacier's debris, a moraine of sorts.
A millennium hence, they'll no doubt expose
a fossil bivalve propped behind this gauze
cloth, with the print of lips under the print of fringe,
mumbling "Good night" to a window hinge.

more Joseph Brodsky

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Betty Friedan's legacy

Subjunctive rearticulation project

Memory fails in the public square
flooded twice with the perfume of decay
those unmentioned, offending factory outlets
nightly recalculations of clever hopes and desire
who suffer again and again
excessive euphoric language dreams
only to neglect their own annihilation
in an imperial light that never ceases
repeating; “I am fleshly poured concrete,
a compulsory wake for the voice”
of eros and dust
beleaguered by the later
wearing endless violations
on our collective being

W. H. Auden

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The permanent Auden 
by Roger Kimball

W.H. Auden @ The Academy of American Poets

My upcoming east coast reading schedule

Friday, Feb. 17, 7 pm
Arts + Literature Laboratory 319
Peck Street, New Haven, CT 06513, (203) 671-5175
Arts + Literature Laboratory 319

Friday, March 10th, (pm)
cambridge, MA
160 Prospect St.
Demolicious reading seris

Friday, March 17th, 7:30 pm
with Samuel Amadon and Thomas Hummel
at 7:30 PM at The Fall Cafe in Carroll Gardens.
brooklyn, NY
307 Smith Street

Saturday, March 18, 2006, 2 pm
Tarpaulin Sky Spring Reading Series
@ The Four-Faced Liar
165 West 4th Street (between 6th & 7th Ave), NY, New York
The Four-Faced Liar

Sunday, March, 19th, 4 pm
with Brenda Iijima  & Rachel Blau DuPless
Robin's Bookstore
108 s. 13th Street • Philadelphia, PA
Robin's Bookstore

Saturday, March 4th, 4 pm
with Tim Davis & Rupert Wondolwski
Clayton & Co. Fine Books
317 N. Charles Street
Clayton & Co. Fine Books

Hope you see you there...

John Giorno

John Giorno photographed byWilliam S. Burroughs


On a day when

you're walking

down the street

and you see 

a hearse

with a coffin,

followed by

a flower car

and limos,

you know the day

is auspicious,

your plans are going to be


but on a day when

you see a bride and groom

and wedding party,

watch out,

be careful,

it might be a bad sign.

Just say no

to family values,

and don't quit

your day job.


are sacred


and some drugs

are very sacred substances, 

please praise them

for somewhat liberating the mind.


is a sacred substance 

to some, 

and even though you've 

stopped smoking,

show a little respect.


is totally great,

let us celebrate

the glorious qualities

of booze,

and I had 

a good time

being with you.


do it,

just don't

not do it,

just do it.

John Giorno, UbuWeb.

Giorno Poetry Systems

Monday, February 06, 2006

Subjunctive rearticulation project

In the development of . . .
on the artificial surface of . . .
fortune telling avatars, descend in
irresistible shadow side show operatics

plastic cover DDT agents
well throughout
strictly protracted broader
mark histories global
visual arias
mini reasons and mini version of . . .

offering painted clay figures
for cenotaphic surrender
weeping laughter
broadcast opportunist slogans
“for where would they be without us”
and from one hundred years ago:
“for where would they be without us”
and five hundred years before that:
“for where would they be without us”
and before that:
“for where would they be without us”

it is another night
of groaning doom production
caroling rhythmic digging
foretelling of a succession
falsely conceived
limitations and errors
on perfections
atomic creation bodies


Check out the NEW - TYPO 7 Curated by Johannes Göransson, this issue highlights Modern Swedish Poetry and features the work of:


'fantastic life: as seen on tv' by ben frost

Sunday, February 05, 2006


by: Stephen Vincent Benét

HERE, where men's eyes were empty and as bright
As the blank windows set in glaring brick,
When the wind strengthens from the sea--and night
Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick;
By the deserted paths, the vacant hills,
One may see figures, twisted shades and lean,
Like the mad shapes that crawl on Indian screen,
Or paunchy smears you find on prison walls.
Turn the knob gently! There's the Thumbless Man,
Still weaving glass and silk into a dream,
Although the wall shows through him--and the Khan
Journeys Cathay beside a paper stream.
A Rabbit Woman chitters by the door--
--Chilly the grave-smell comes from the turned sod--
Come--lift the curtain--and be cold before
The silence of the eight men who were God!

'Ghosts of a Lunatic Asylum' was originally published by Stephen Vincent Benét in 1918.




Subjunctive rearticulation project

Do they mean to use only select words, beautiful words, beautiful images, hopeful faces hiding secrets, nothing ugly or distasteful, nothing now suffering now dying, and ideal of pure abstraction, products of very high quality, advertised world wide, once in a life time, enjoyment for the truly embodied, economically organic states of consciousness. Using careful methods to reduce language, cut word usage in half, letting the outside fade away. No trace, just a gestural surface asking for more, undulating half full of a desire for a grainy eternity. Growing red tail lights, float dark, placed along nothing hands from a trickle of miles, creeps along outside, fades to blank. Nothing left to haunt the present, no traffic of exploitation, only beautiful images without an idiom, an idiom without spirit, something about the rest of us no longer exists, cut out, wiped away, unregistered victims left on a dull line, a pharmokon for a select few.

Gillian Conoley

There's a new interview up at Here Comes Everybody.  It's Gillian Conoley.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Bundi Palace

Beckett estate fails to stop women waiting for Godot

· Court overturns attempt to exclude female actors
· Judgment hailed as a victory for civil rights
Barbara McMahon in Rome
The Guardian

Although the Irish critic Vivian Mercier famously described it as a two-act play where "nothing happens ... twice", an Italian production of Waiting for Godot has been having a rather busier time off-stage.

Lawyers representing Samuel Beckett's estate, known for its iron grip on the playwright's works, objected to the use of female actors in the two main roles of Vladimir and Estragon, issuing an injunction against the theatre in Pontedera, Tuscany, to try to stop the performances.

Six Lectures on Sound and Meaning - Roman Jakobson (1942)

Lecture I

Source: Lectures on Sound & Meaning, publ. MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1937, Preface by Claude Lévi-Strauss. Most of first and all of last lectures reproduced here.

I AM SURE you are familiar with Edgar Allan Poe’s famous poem The Raven, and with its melancholy refrain, ‘Nevermore.’ This is the only word uttered by the ominous visitor, and the poet emphasises that ‘what it utters is its only stock and store.’ This vocable, which amounts to no more than a few sounds, is none the less rich in semantic content. It announces negation, negation for the future, negation for ever. This prophetic refrain is made up of seven sounds seven, because Poe insists on including the final r which is, he says, ‘the most producible consonant.’ It is able to project us into the future, or even into eternity. Yet while it is rich in what it discloses, it is even richer in what it secretes, in its wealth of virtual connotations, of those particular connotations which are indicated by the context of its utterance or by the overall narrative situation. Abstracted from its particular context it carries an indefinite range of implications. ‘I betook myself to linking/ fancy unto fancy,’ the poet tells us, ‘thinking what this ominous bird of yore -/ What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore/ Meant in croaking "Nevermore"./ This I sat engaged in guessing ... This and more I sat divining... .’ Given the context of the dialogue the refrain conveys a series of different meanings: you will never forget her, you will never regain peace of mind, you will never again embrace her, I will never leave you! Moreover this same word can function as a name, the symbolic name which the poet bestows upon his nocturnal visitor.

An interview with Gertrude Stein

An interview with Gertrude Stein
::wood s lot::

Q: "How do you do."

A: "Very well I thank you."

Q: Would you care to make a statement?

A: Gladly. "If we say, Do not share, he will not bestow they can reiterate, I am going to do so, we have organised an irregular commonplace and we have made excess return to rambling."

Q: You will not mind if 1 ask what an irregular commonplace is?

A: Not at all, since the answer is anything. That is, anything is the answer. Or anything is an answer. But to back to the question. Anything is at once typical and unique. And so anything is what "everybody knows and nobody knows," an irregular commonplace, and Miss Stein was always writing the portrait of that, and of anything.

Q: Do go on.

A: I always do. It is just as well to ramble on about it after all. Anything, as I was saying, that comes before the normal mind in the normal life can be identified by name, and that aspect of it which has to do with our habitual practical purposes is obviously and clearly seen. But that same anything contains or involves a great many other aspects and qualities that everybody knows are there, even though everybody keeps his mind pretty well fixed on the single practical aspect and is only vaguely aware of the others, and strictly speaking does not know them.

Dylan Thomas - I Have Longed To Move Away

I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

University of Chicago Press blog

University of Chicago Press has a newblog

Subjunctive rearticulation project

internal difference
becomes a thing to a thing
holding a thing in a cell

A sea of impartial fear
landscape unable to breathe
deadened with identification
further grasping
and constant working

working on machinery
body mechanics
impressing corporal mentality
forceful actions
shortened goodbyes
and comfortable slaughter

Internal difference
imagines pleasures
endless infectious perceptions
all the while
desires a common
common denominator
common sense intercourse
production sex
monolithic systemic
rhythmic sex
with a quick
response time

Internal difference
names oily names
with over reaching lips
surrounded by the dead
surrounding another
gathering momentum
for another
long persistent
waiting for another
been nice not as
horrible as the
day before
so long good bye

Suspect Thoughts seeking work


Issue 17: The Still Life Issue

The online edition of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines still life as a picture consisting predominantly of inanimate objects, or the category of graphic arts concerned with inanimate subject matter. In other words: exquisite paintings in which nothing happens. Too much contemporary fiction is similar: beautifully wrought, ultimately inert. Character-driven work is great, if the characters have things to say and do, if events occur, if action unfolds… if the story has a plot. 

There, I said it: I'm looking for a plot, or at least something that resembles a narrative arc. I'm not looking for literary lemons and skulls and apples and candles decaying gorgeously on the page. I want you to subvert genre. Turn literature inside out, darkly. And maintain the reader's interest. 

Although the story doesn't have to be about art, I want you to title your slice of subversive creative brilliance something along the lines of "Still Life with __________" or "Landscape with _____________". Start with one of those traditional painting titles, have your way with it, and make it your own.
Original work preferred 
500 – 5000 words, query for longer 
suspect thoughts: a journal of subversive writing is not a paying market 
Submission deadline April 15, 2006 

Email submissions only: violetmonster@gmail.com
Include your name and contact info on the first page of the manuscript 
In your subject line: SUSPECT THOUGHTS, [first & last name], "Title" 
Use a serif font like Courier, Times, or Book Antiqua


Drag Kings Short Story Erotica
Amie M. Evans and Rakelle Valencia, editors
Suspect Thoughts Press

We want to create an anthology of realistic stories involving drag kings on or off stage. In a dressing room, a parked car, a hotel room. All the glamour, or lack there of, that dressing up like a man, performing for a screaming (or lame) crowd, traveling in intimate circumstances with other performers, or meeting all those fine women and bois who yell to take it off, that leads to sex, sex, sex. Or tell us tales of the hooking up that happens at these gigs between co-performers or lusty fans looking to bed their favorite kings. And make your story HOT.

1) Submissions should be fictional short stories, lesbian in content, no less than 1,500 words and no more than 6,000 words, and must be typed (preferably in Times New Roman, 12 font), double-spaced, and printed on one side of the page only.

2) Submit TWO HARD COPIES, INCLUDING TWO COVER LETTERS. All manuscripts must be disposable. (If accepted, final manuscript must be submitted on disk.)

3) Name, address, phone number, email address, and word count should appear on the first page.

4) SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope must be provided if you wish to be notified by "snail mail". Others will be notified through email.

5) Unpublished and previously published materials will be considered at a pay rate of $75 for originals and $25 for reprints. Contributors will receive two copies of the book.
Submit stories to:
Amie M. Evans/Rakelle Valencia
33 Campbell Street
Woburn, Ma 01801

SUBMISSION GUIDELINE: Suspect Thoughts Press


The pataphor is an unusually extended metaphor invented by writer Pablo Lopez (aka musician Paul Avion), based on Alfred Jarry's "science" of 'pataphysics.

As Jarry claimed that 'pataphysics existed "as far from metaphysics as metaphysics extends from regular reality", a pataphor attempts to create a figure of speech that exists as far from metaphor as metaphor exists from non-figurative language.
Differentiating it from the metaphor, a pataphor is a figurative device whose meaning is extended until it creates an entirely new context.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Outside Mandu in a little community

Shameless self promotion

One Less Magazine: #2 Collection(s)

Contributors include: Roy Arenella, Olga Alexander, David Baratier, Bren Bataclan, Melissa Benham, Mairead Byrne, Penny Carlton, Marcus Civin, Bruce Covey, Ray Craig, kari edwards, Elaine Forrest, Chris Gauthier, Alexandra Hidalgo, Michelle Hill, Dylan Hock, Lisa Jarnot, Alexander Jorgensen, Matthew Langley, Jane Joritz-Nakagawa, Kyle Kaufman, Juliana Leslie, Gayle Mak, Sean MacInnes, Tim Martin, Ellen Redbird, Andrew Riley Clark, Elizabeth Robinson, T.M. Roche-Kelly, Summer Rodman, Michael Rothenberg, Ken Rumble, Brandon Shimoda, John Sullivan, Eileen Tabios, Nico Vassilakis, Andrew Wille

To Pre-order the second issue, Collection(s), please send $10 payable to:

One Less Magazine
c/o Nikki Widner
6 Village Hill Road
Williamsburg, MA 01096

For a one-year subscription, please send $18 payable to the above address.