thoughts to ...

read this out there on blogosphere ~ Blogospherium?
'some words i have heard uttered not too long ago in these merry streets:

'language poetry is american imperialism'

Now that's an interesting notion. what to make of it? how so
can a poetry be imperialistic? in the time of Empire imperial poetries. but the group referred to predates the notion of Empire. in any case. how can aesthetics act as a representational force? but they

like bodies do


a tribune

Those who stay and
those who go

against heart and night
what strangers are they?
to spooky lands of felt
away to the awry territories of

Umberto Boccioni, States of Mind: Those who stay, 1911
Oil on canvas - 70.8 x 95.9 cm
Museum of Modern Art, New York

" ... nobody will know who I am, nobody will say who I was ..." (Fernando Pessoa; died 70 years ago December 4)

of ghosts which've not passsed
hunchbacks and gnarled parts things

a debt of forever further back
in the cave


pseudonyms and Oedipus mother
my lover whose mouth I cry

but then

the symphony the dance


Is it not something to laugh at your goat, yer self
a play and not a paltry wig laughing at selves


which multiply always multiply
gaining strength along a route
touting the old and new
a forest tangle of lover's vows



It will and will

If you hold the mouth of Truth, It will burst out its rib-cage. Somali proverb

O mouth truth beauty my dove
it is you
you I the
body its cross
across the carry

You its carry cross
mouth truth of its cage
you its bird sun
rib of my Eve
Eve of rib
the Lillith sigh
over wood of city

I've submitted to you
its narrow paysage
the country of its chink
and it's only with you
I'll find repose on the bus
the coralled crowded bus
with you he thought
there'd be repose

languishes body
you its proverbial
verb water of mouth

unlatching the cage
Thisbe says this is it
why not
see the page
where her love
over the water
hell spent
in the spout of her desire

of fires and animals
beast and near the flame of feast
end-rhyme to desire eye
her eye seeing running
in its dedication
its devotion to her by the Me I

but what I
is that who
says memory's
no place

in my long arm willow
that along the walking avenue
memory h'as all packages
picking slips
receipt of mouth lip
taken O breath forsaken
foreword the body of her breast
to my chest
in the skinny instance of its alarm

Can I
whatever I is
harm that
hinder it

what book erudite recalled
of the weight on sentences
weighs this breast of hers to my mouth ?


quelle you

yes quelle? you
says that
its proper quantum

dance little rider
dance your part
in the liliputianna breath

what me says you
or rendered by far and trull


mot not there

split cleave

mouth eddy

not here



on the end of a glance_ Bach

old & young

on the edge of an Ear

sow sleepers

sow sleepers in my veins
veins of love

"even sleepers are workers and collaborators on what goes on in the universe."
found statement attributed tribute to heraclitus

what terror haunts
Van Gogh's head caught in a sun-flower becoming?

the horror the horror!

the little light people

you gotta see the way it says
the bimble does the grimble

There are sudden, apparently inexplicable suicides that must
be understood as the dawn of a hope so horrible
and harrowing that is is unendurable.

Words in a poem, sounds in movement, rhythm in space,
... bridgeheads into alien territory. They are acts
of insurrection.

Creation ex nihilo has been pronounced impossible even for God.
But we are concerned with miracles. We must hear the music
of those Braque guitars (Lorca) .

You cannot step in the same river once.

I don't even want to know there were men before me.

He tried to scream and woke up.

my father moved through dooms of love.

I was so downhearted .

It is because consciousness conceals in its being
a permanent risk of bad faith .

My original fall is the existence of the Other.

Satan (le Multiple) before God's opacity __ the many before the self-claimed One.

Immanence in the face Ass of transcendence.


PunCtuAtion Marsh

[From ‘Punctuation Marks’ in Notes to Literature, Volume 1. ed. Rolf Tiedemann and trans. Shierry Weber Nicholson. Columbia University Press. 1958. pp. 96-7. ]

The writer is in a permanent predicament when it comes to punctuation marks; if one were fully aware while writing, one would sense the impossibility of ever using a mark of punctuation correctly and would give up writing altogether. For the requirements of the rules of punctuation and those of the subjective need for logic and expression
are not compatible: in punctuation marks the check the writer draws on language is refused payment. The writer cannot trust in the rules which are often rigid and crude; nor can he ignore them without indulging in a kind of eccentricity and doing harm to their nature by calling attention to what is inconspicuous – and inconspicuousness is what punctuation lives by. But if, on the other hand, he is serious, he may not sacrifice any part of his aim to a universal, for no writer today can
completely identify with anything universal; he does so only at the price of affecting the archaic. The conflict must be endured each time, and one needs either a lot of strength or a lot of stupidity not to lose heart. At best one can advise that punctuation marks be handled the way musicians handle forbidden chord progressions and incorrect voice leading. With every act of punctuation, like every musical cadence, one can tell whether there is an intention or whether it is pure sloppiness

All this i s very Nice and very established to admit the ividiousness of choice. bu t pray tell what is archaic when choice operates? where is the question mark when it is not spelled out where is imagination and invention left. this author speaks as if there were a struggle that is resolved by the writer each time she put to paper. ahhaha what paper. paper has dissolved .

What use are these Ideas for writers like Artaud. whose gramar is beyonD these matters

Or others many others.

and in the Future Past
the external linkage to the dying of a philosopher