till

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till 'Ije' becomes collective Iwe then its blank blank. blan. esp. among artists.

had a conversation wth a friend earlier today.

affter i ask meself : are we going crazy?is everyone having the same conversation? is it all a wired mirror of death and anxiety? is there no reprieve?

the old poet hugo ball spoke of the flight from time. what interest me is the flight between _

to air time
breath ~

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this week eye exam. yes, aN other pleasure. im being sarcastic. because these characters that examine eyes are worse than dentists. dentists have at least to answer a professional code recognized grounded in some objectivity. whereas glasses? shit man, that' s the biggest sc am of all. glasses? what shit. i ought to justthrow mine in the garbage. forget the wholedisgusting thing of seeing anyhow.

see_ing? see Eye Dog? dog woof woof mizz woolf.
miss see I dogette. Miss EyePatch dogette and her wolves. shit man. what a bunch. well i had a friend once he moved to the states. his wife's father was in that business. but he was exceptional . won awards. was the real thing. can anyone find an optician optometrist who's not there for show? the asses of women who work inthese places. the men suited bowed and tied. O yer vanity is pricked by these glasses dear Sir
these glasses are a sure fire way to be
b e a u ti Ful
sexeee
glamour
shit. man. glasses. eye s. minor madness. sore. neck. reading glasses. eye glasses. mirror. glasses. contact lens. Lens

LENS

is the name of a poem I wrote 1984
for Susan B ~

lon g gone. well funny that that wee little poem pops up now. eh, lEns, Lens crafter, bausch and loam! loam my arse. gloam glaucous. gibbous moon of groan.


I foresee in the future a country with no glasses
no eye opticians . these glasses. since i purchased them 3 years ago?stained. crap. antimagnetic antistatic baloney. malarkey.sold to me by con. men. no on esays truth. our market place. the reft and heart of cynicism. cynicism is the coin we exchange.

our mouth is bereft with cynicism
.
i dont write poetry anylonger. poetry does not interest me. if the game is to cynic one's ego express machine.non merci. Non! like that big nosed Frenchman says, Cyrano Non! non!
Je dis Non!
'

CYRANO

Et que faudrait-il faire? ...
Non merci ...., comme tous il le font,
Des vers aux financiers? '

and he goes on and on . Its fantastic. genisu. and Depardieu was perfect actor. for the role.
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I love that Non. it gets repeated again and again. its very forceful and definite in its refusal to bow to lower standards. Its been a few years since I seenthe film. But my god. what a tale. eh. not this bullshit now we call poetry. asslicking media couture. seeking record. contract. clutchin'a t grants from canada council. but you sluts must qualify first. and if you dont well we are most sorry.too bad go starve.Bring back the Borgia patronage. bring back patronage. non that's not the answer either. bring us the socialism of multiplitcy and share wealth. spread across nation,

like Strawberry Jam on bread.

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--- yea them that give the dough ought to rea d that Non Non Merci!
a vos mentes et merdres. as for the rulers of language. dont tell me how to speak and write. what the discourse is . Foucault and others bashed that apart years back. practice what you preach. praxis what you theorize.
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several in m..o...nt...r...eal who had key parts to play down sized poetry to its shitty common level. of less is more. they was wrong. no one reads more. no one listen more. less do actually. reading poesie. is finished. its for few by fewer. or something. for the time being anyhow. for the time anyhow being. being time anyhow. being . beingtime anyhow being becoming..