the limits of ideas like camille  paglia's   (like her mentor Bloom and others of that ilk) is she doesn't take them far enough.   which is usually the case    with idea snatchers . a bit here and a bit there but they don't run far enough with them and in her case what appears to be literary criticism __ whatever that is __ turns out to be an idea of history based on the mythology idea, the imposing idea of Apollonian versus Dionysus man versus woman/nature.

i started reading her ages ago but forgot about but because i am concerned with poems and she writes about poems sometimes i decided to read her book Personae (....l) .

 but it's not really a book at all. its a yelling | a  loud  session |  the negative in full swing| but its good| but does not go far enough that's the problem   in my opinion with having a teacher, or mentor, or whatnot whose own views are limited by the horizon of the negative i.e. Bloom, and others. It's not so much that they are wrong, they are often not wrong in specifics, but the

view they espouse is ultimately the horizon of the negative

 and she says this in bold black and white . man is a fearful being fearing castration by the woman and as soon as reading that

I thought she's just dead wrong

shes on the back track

shes a priestess of the negative

    this is not true and its not where its at . its the whole negative freudian thing

-------------------------- more anon.


( looks like i am losing a tooth next week!) (shit a tooth a crown dating back a decade but no longer crownable? hahahah     a crown to get the boot?! ache, it aches me some)


re adverb draft_ MOre


Ok, then what is a verb?

Re: adverb draft

No one knows what a verb is. A verb aint a noun, it aint a crown, its not ground or being, but is it becoming , is it passive or engaged negative, positive first case,  upper case lower case capital I and You.

 Who is the verb? some say its this some say its that.

   and that is that.its not fat and a cat.

i walked on the beach today picking up crap

   is that a verb it got hot i hadnt eaten is that a verb

tomorrow they're protesting the imperial rise of surveillance in the surveillance state of the society of everyone watching everyone

    is this a verb that sentence contruscted of hungry thoughts? toast/
                                                (what a lovely typo!)        

 toast, tea, me, thee, a wee sounding on the sea,
   the boats, beach, memory of John and
     memory and the water
   they say we    in that book Paglia claims cultured life's a struggle agains the chthonian  (a horrible word which is complely nuts to pronunce so screw it!) force of nature
   i read her impelling sentences , really not sentences but demands __ almost commands

     tacking their high speed in her book,

telling me this and these things
  but as I cam e home last

   night and i am saying yes yes yes to this pithy truth  or that   partial one

as theyre all partial

  but as I am walking down 'some dark street'

    and the jungle life-atmosphere of being lost for a moment rouses that old      ,.... in my breast

 I do look up
   I halt I look up

    that vaulting late night sky

           one star,,  two planets, another star, then another and another and , look, over there,

peeping up,  peering out,  & beside & beside
    & behind, around,
 working there,  grinding here,

pushing a whole sky a universe of star and strung space

between the heaping skies of what word for it between those cosmoses

  and the earth is small its chthonian  (that horrible word again) force mostly gravity really

   and this is not bad or good, or bad or god,
call it immanence , transcendence
___________________________________ what she does is split it all| down the mid|dle!
                                                                                                             ch op               ch  op|

  there's no duality and there is
its both of  the same shop

two stop overs at the same station

right some like that

   & more

______________________  but its the struggle between her static notion of history that's off and one can say wrong, if not wrongheaded.
  but she's close to being on to what's what  at least to some extent but . when she starts talking decadence well then the bottom falls through.

what decadence ? what does she mean/ she never says as she does not know. she mixes an idea of decadence with an other notion of late capitalism

as if she'd mixed Jameson's ideas  with Bloom's notion of the evening stage of western literary expression. the latter is a complete melancholic projection of the man's own pyschology and where Fredric Jamesson ends we begin.





 Started two new poems last night

 he's got a box


my little words


adverb draft


                            what is an adverb?
                      it is a funny 'object'
                                     strangely shaped
                               formed and unformed in  time's 'burb'
                                       its urge to modify & classify

                                                        the tender telling of time's
                                                             tourniquet its barbershop twisting
                                                      candy-cane pole to a single reconnoitring before dawn's
                                                     ship crowds the bay of nouns
                                                     the mighty verb high sailing steamer
                                                               the smoke stacked ocean liners
                                             packing the harbour of funnels, chimneys, masts, and sails 

                                                                 the water pushes back the land
                                                                         rolling off the surf its benign touch



i was ...


I was not beautiful where I lay... running around in my head, that line, which as it turns out, does not exist, not previously that is to me saying  it

                                         But it puts me in mind of , or reminded me or echoed   ,   rhythm wise  ,

   the one Stephen Dedalus wrote (in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man)

about being weary of where he lay

   and the 'fallen seraphim'

 it's odd, amazing, fascinating, how the echo of a line, one's not read in years, and even decades, might crop up like

 'taking the mickey ' out of one, as it were,   and there it is, echoing in the heart mind or mind heart or rhythm
   and it's connected to how he felt, how he felt about his looks, not being 'beautiful, ' as if one ever were, or had to be , bu t in a world of conjunctions

one's sometimes,   forced as it were to conceive oneself this way, and    'they say' men don't do that, i mean think  of themselves in terms of beauty

 and not beauty

  he was not beautiful where he lay    he lay in the hard stone of the pavement like the young woman yesterday outside of the day before outside of the

metro in Verdun

  and O how she smiled when he gave her some money, for her collection, sitting there she was ,

no more than, say, twenty two? and she was weary, he could see, wary  and weary where she lay,
but her spirit tipped up

  and she smiled too, when she saw the amount , surprised saying Merci, and Thank you her spirit lifted up and he 'good luck'    and on the way he wondered how she'd come to such a pass as to be sitting on her butt, on her ass, sitting on her ass  , outside of the metro station, the young woman
  that in spite of any of that, she rose up,  and smiled thank you  and her spirit would carry her then, two hours

he didn't know about that nor about beauty
                                        with the exception of believing he was not beautiful.

and someone told him that word does not belong to you. you can't use that word. what are you? what's the matter with you, anyhow?

 He tottered on the blank sheet of paper holding his head, high jinks to the high heaven.





re_________ring ~


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Re_________ring ~

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