boldy bold


reading shakespeare's plays right thru  (after all of these years of being with him since  childhood)  in a  line of books one after the other with 'breaks' between                                                                    as i read other things..
  one thinks about  'for an intire' life

now that's a contradiction saying two things with one mouth reading 

 one brain going in two directions

besides which as I once told someone named John

I dont really read those books I just underline

                      yet with Wilhelmina a  Shakescenry you ode dont need to really as  it

           underlines itself

  but i dont pretend to read those books if I did i'd get nothing done at all

  basically iread them all before i was twenty all i needed to read and then a year or two till before 25

  i   read                                  french                      english       and all the others in-between

   that i need d   to do for any flamboyant   creating required after and after again

  for being after yourself is many to yourself before having to do what it's called to get a hold of the shores

          required if you follow my drift entirely leaning?


So I says to Flocky who thinks I was Yearny


I dont read at all


   You don't read?

Yearny:   I'm going to underline the telephone book, I mean the white pages right, the yellow pages


He says, Flocky does, pointing out my ahead of the time genius all farseeing before its time binoculars


   that is very cool       you are the cool playing between the classical and the improvisation of the piano sentence

  Ah I dont know if Flocky is dead but he sure  is not reaching around the corner. with any grace and gratitude all stuffed up the nose with smoking  t he greeny green a lifetime and more his mindymind's become a broken record recording his own   blue blue blues.




_________________ reverse


  i find it interesting that his (w.s.) plays were performed backwards..  as it written one year seen another .. performed in awake yet writ in sleep ..    per(s)hance(d) to wake (indefinite article) .. beside (all) others ..  and the Duchess of Malfi?  ..





   Poet Walt Whitman describing capitalism as "a sort of anti-democratic disease and monstrosity."

 Quoted in Oliver Stone's book

    The  Untold History of the United States

                                                                                   which I am reading.



'oh cause..


 because he came to find her with her lover

                                       he found   her


.. there's something ...


i  just saw that  

                                      there's something Blakeian  about this word  'Oroonoko'
                              (youknow whatImean? yousee what 
                                    I mean?)
   Maybe Melvillian ?  perhaps Melvillian?

 Alpha beta 

  Aphra Ben

 Aphra aphrodisiac      _______________ in a debtor's prison was she
                                                               with hair down to a knee
                                ___________________in the keep winsome 
                        _________________________a lone lone bee

_________No was that plain rose english Mister jT?

______________  I have been in Greece but never saw '(r)  your name
        ________   along the Greek pyramids leaning tall
        ___________         against the weight of buildings dead long
              ___________          ago 
                          ________            in any resurrected pain
              ______________  the   king's body  for  a   q ueen
            ___________ bearing salt & vinegar
          ____________  finding fife and gift in every thing 
                       _______________ blessed by the accent of thine courting  

                               _______________ Oona had a  choice
                          ____________ thy busyness is bee busy be? busty be thou woman
                         _____________ share holder not cropped
  _____________________worsted by the wool of thy ve(a)inity 
                        _____________V necked sweater  Beth 
                                                _____________ i like your sweater  then 
                       _____________________  of the nights we swam golden and hid
                                  _____________ looked at it later
                                          ____________ was an hind of the lifting cloud
                           _____________noticed it was vaginal flowery
                                          _______Ooona has become no one  by the ship  
                           ______________masting at its furl  _________far off ___to cutter__

                                       not close _______as proximty ____nor thy imagined life________




.. and anyways


well so you had that idea right ?

   Me   i was off kilter

        but it's  a  winning idea      suggesting anything other than shakespeare was god or
  (a commonplace in 19c england )
                  milton greater?

Me:  Energy I am talking about  or was but even there I was wrong  ... let me qualify that modified remark __ long winded as it was __ conjuncted by em-dashes ____ ?

                                      that shakespeare's work is no less greater than milton's its more like rather akin to say Jupiter and Saturn? so rotating moons so okay

             he was like god

         the god of creation                                                                                         (becomings)

  (he was not Like      god He was god in the sense that the english had their collective energies' mirror reflected right back to them at the moment of their greatest creation he was  a revolution   he was in that sense their god  in the sense that god means the energy of creation at a  given moment

   the theologians got it alll wrong in this sense that they belive the work of a god's done once and for all)

  for creators  and co-creators there is no like but become i become what you are  i become the sympathetic bolt of lightening  inventiing in the moment the flash of its need

  shakespeare's historians are shakespeare   i.e. the histories...

  but it's not it's the ongoingness right               'les devenirs'
                      yclept the 'mind' even at its beginnings    is this a brother then to Mozart   ?

 the other whiz deity                 to compare to a s ummerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr's day 

             o bright shining star

  OLadies and Genitalmen! in this corner at  187 pounds dead at 52 

   William de Shakespeare

                World heavy champion of  
   plays     100 sonnets
   property owner and chief gentleman and actor,
  share holder        3 narrative poems of love & bicker sorrow

  William the Shake     shake that thing

 and in this corner

weighing in

blind baby Johnny Milton!

  194    Milton the Monster   bearer

 Challenger an Undisputed ringleader of
the double-headed

glove right hook    (prose  it baby!)

and the upper cut left    of the million march of consonant &  vowel

  dead at  67?
blind in both eye balls

 Come back Comedy

Aeschylus                                                                                                        Sophocles


 Rave on!

  Vocktaire Gousseau!

rhyme an invention of a barbarous age?  

O then Oh sage

what's the pluperperfect of the signified signifie?

 what selfie sign is that my god   (s) 

a good start and it took long enough

 fits in with Keat's idea that Shakespeare read with an Irish accent is clearer the puns more shining and audible & with Ted Hughes' discussion (that) 'the plays were performed at what we'd perceive as high speed' the riffs and rooooooollllllllllls as it'twere

welll this tallies up right with what ah've said and how the english have been their own worst enenmies at getting the work of w . s . at the people that created it there w as no sh a kes peare S hakes peare was the collective energy a sort of subconscious god of the english people at the time creating them and still creating them _________________


O_________________Kay ___


large adjectives that splattered the speech it was going like a tripe spinning 
 around its splintering sides and a blather and a bang bang bang of its what was that? you asked
its warning keeping around the long ascending hen come to me my children round like a  
    flock a geese round her mother of the sunset its kale away lake O my loud ones how you
      feel this drop drop drop  no one holds its like this and the last thing you want to hear is
the overdubbed keening of the cockamamie quail 
  talking is one thing as its worked to the punch of the reboot the breath the sentence coming up
from the consciousness deep in the well of the hid stomach's dark lining and over the castle
  light fading over the ridge silhouette clinging to the eyes re-knitting the gold and light  kindling
  up the clearing  and there's the bending branches backwards that dance particular to the view
of its heart scope hope and the blaring river   did no one remind you the yellow flecks favouring
their view and cascading coarse on the tide upping on the beach rock and the way it sounds
as a  bell melancholy but no sadder than  a day of meadow and cloud clear rows and orchards

  on the widening mountain the dustied up roady going over the side and round the bend your
eye can't see past  the raid-on sights and the close pen where the moo bulls pull and mull the pond

or the sunk out land with its bog root oat the what do you call trench rung round the bounded 
  rim she knew the christian name of every person boarding that boat and of the scholarly nights
she was acquainted and knowledgeable as one should be in the face of its cardinal points and rumors
of towns and facts of history tabulating its chronicle as proper to its station in the rising decay
of time's dong dong cock a doddle ding and the downgrading of its outline and she raised it to
the roof risible to the decibel of its larder and the laughter of the love come applauding to greet her



Vivaldi Winter


Winter Concert - Norway Mari Samuelsen - Violin


---------------------------------------------------------------------- This version of Vivaldi's Winter is the emotional and astonishing thing I have heard, ever? perhaps ever is too big a word but it threw me right around, tears, gnashing of the teeth , swirls, Ups DOwns __ the whole thing indescribable .. it would take me nights to do so and I don't have time right to describe it ... when did I ever have time ? time to write to breath? to love __________________



figment of a ,


 as i worse predicted president was worsted wool its increase was
  day to sun summer fool canned by its whipping post the poor
thing was green to her summer leave-taking the rope tense
 with wicked one pushed by its severity contrasting Isabelle's
tenderness of once its thing a ma-bob her breath and surreal
door came before ringlet of hair curled back beneath the brown
   hair glistened its air in  sun dark and day over moor heath peat-bog
 brogue belfry outside of the duck toad working hand and feet
whiter as pale geese it's your knees i am holding it out to your cell(s)
  it was her hips and smile worked first caught your attention
what cloud had come along opening out a direction  lean-to
  mild as weather river taking off each letter curled it  tack
lettering along the ridge or seam as you would call at the kiosk
   at the newspaper collector's home what it would lion? she knew
it never was the si'm /hocking her open mouth a lover's dog

crowded by every sunday messenger she's could it pend?
a question every parliamentary member gulped down  its liege to
legislative power soured no not soured by won by every staging day
passing its minute woman there is a pharmacist whose pen carries this tone





the materiality  and non materiality of blogs is what I think of/ ponder consider
 am glad of and frustrated about

 without being slight or silly or light in a  way frivolous

it's akin to  the not dissimilar materiality and non materality of the body

  and the question, or one of the big ones  anyhow, at the heart of human consciousness

is the body's life      ~    and matter ,,  resurrection    it's the question arrayed behind every human fear it's there in  all the poetry, a ll the religions    all philLoCopSophy!

does the body died and when it does rather do we die with it? is the end of our being  physcially the end of us ?  do we move into a nother plane

Another plane   __  the airplane of consciousness and its green wish

  more soon   fromthe conscious being on his way out the door the winter night

   fogging in the bringing      

  the ringing

 christmas cards?  tobbaggon  sleigh bells

  horse  smell pulling the carriage up to st joseph