tonight last night

readin off /on with & without attention Androcles and the Lion _ George Bernard Shaw. I 've read the play before because the text's underlined as usual__ all over the place .. well, sort of smeared. and so on.
whats amazing and interestin is the SiZe of the Preface. It takes up more than half and more of the play ~ Shaw, sure knew how to write on and on. Wonderful writing. Filled with optimism, _ the play itself was produced first in 1913- does not say when the essay was done, but I'd imagine it was around the same time. He was so opitmisitic and belived so much in the possibilities of hope. Start of WW1 and how could have foreseen what the 20th c. had in store.

---------------- I listen to Bartok again and again these days. the more i listen the more I realize how deep. what mediations of perjury and death, what circle s of meditation and drama on life. how to explain music. one cannot . it is the purest form of dramatic art yet. how describe what these violins do to one's ears, and head. and the sound system i use is so secondary and badly conveys this music. its suddenness and change of heart , or string momentarily. stop start pause, seems to halt completely building up climbing relenting giving way clinging O Ear.
Now playing: Orchestre symphonique de montreal - L'histoire du soldat 2

Bartok the Miraculous Mandarin ./ Bella Bartok, what a name.
There are times, there have been, when words, phrase, sentences, pieces of your letters, come back to me, __ haunt me _ your phone calls, haunt me, my heart churns up, i break and fall, death waiting in my greeting arms __ come back to me_ they tear me up like razors, other times,

i'd burst into tears, choked up, lost at the hope that was lost. little phrases, like " we are alright together, eh..." "yes, we will be alright..." and words shuttled back forth en français in english . i never spoke with anyone the way i did with you. no one ever called me the way you did.
never was there openness like that, giving like that, open palms and hands, language given so much, _ phone calls, and you you. You.

__ nights on the subway a nightmare. unhappiness desperation, fear_ boredom, yawning vacancy __ rage, insanity of madness of trains arriving

and leaving, no one wanting to be on them, everyone wishin they were somewhere else,___ never fast enough, frequent, enough,t eh marquees

plein de stupid words, now now the half dozens of televisons hung in connecting stations like Berri and Mcgill and Lionel-Groulx, station named

after a fascist. one wonders who they were tryin to please when they did that.

winter now never ends. biggest snowfall indecades. cold not fun, tramping trudging in snowfall. spirng is 14 days ? away, yet here is winter.

never ending.whats worse is the cold, the mood, the meanness overcoming everyone, the fatigue of where is the sunshine. thousands head to

"florida" and "cuba" last communist state left in the world, for their dose of communism and sun.
in florida, god knows what it's like . blue sea, blue skies. money condos.

and this route of life never ending, e x cept the writing itself as a tangle snake runnign down the road. i've lived off this subway line now for

almost 2 and a half years, the most depressing and unhappy line ever, the most unhappy neighborhood ever I've lived in. a mistake ever to have

moved here, to have stayed more than the first year. this year, its final, over. out . this has been more exhausting, tireing and depresssin, to the

eyes,the spirit to my breathing my joy my sense of well being, than any neighborhood,or area I've lived in anywhere at anytime. In my opinion,

the neighborhood is a mockery of any idea of what "Canada" is supposed to be. Its manipulated and connned, and in just a few years, less than

ten, it will be gentrified, and taken over. All the pain will be wiped away by money, just a trickle or two of what was 'll remain. It's a scam, like

everything else is in capitalism these days. Nothing is real, nothing has any value.

I once was goin to write an essay
about another metro , the Plamondon station_ which is on Victoria, and Van Horne. I was goin to call it, Plamondon the saddest metro

station in Montreal, the world. Now I know that is true, but this one, is worse.

This one is hell underground, deep, its the dark end of the tunnel, its symbolizes and encacts pure economoc schizophrenia. the rich on one side,

the rest o n the other and the pretense of the between,the middele class from Town of Mont-Royal,. upper edges of Outremont, and the roads [and the middle class in this? beats me, i see dumps, buildings run, down , and cars, cars. everywhere. cars are the enemy]

that intersect and pass through as conduits for the other roads and highways that do the same. To me it 's the farce of metropolitan Montreal

capitalism at its most patheric and cold. The immigrants on one side of the street face Town of Mount-Royal on the other. Off in the distance,

condos and townhouses, being built up weekly as if a war zone being constructed, the war machines and tanks.

Im sure, no Im not sure, I know that it's worse, terrifyingly worse in other cities of the world. There are cities, under siege, terrible wars, and

horror, of death and camps, and infinite suffering, and that one day there would have me on my knees beggin for gratitude to be back. and

that's how it works, eh, the system banks, literally on that. it's designed this way, so the beggars who come here, are agog with gratefulness

and are true beggars, the beggars and workers of the world . captial system. so the bigger get bigger and the small smaller . and where, Mister--

beg beg beg beg _ yes, beg you beggars. beg for yer piece of pie ~ of gratitude ~

Hart and Negri is your Multitudes in this? where , pray tell, are the great loving crowds of solidarity who flow over the earth creating a new

pacem in terris with abundance and peace spreading the wealth of the world around, where? I will tell you, they are nowhere to be found.

Today on the phone with a friend, was suggested I listen to this woman speak on radio. a so-called writer .I heard a word, a sentence, I heard

her say, she beleive sin Jesus as personal saviour. Stopped . Turned off radio. Where is the resentment? have i a resentment? if so, what is it ?

that I am the fish in the bowl of the captialist system? that gods and machines have turned off their ears, not just to me but to everyone who

learned a trade to work and teach and is denied that, while others live on the fat of the land, soc alled, touristing and joy riding and writing

masturbatory books none will read outside of their precious schools. No, sir, I dont accept that god, that jesus, saves,banks around the dead,

an ikon of mysterious monkeys and atheist crowds. I dont accept insanity as a premise of living. If anythingis insane in this world,it's the idea

of a saviour. yes. dead gods, are dead.
What I espouse GuattarinDeleuzian idea is the simple reason they are the only philosophers I know, with Nietzscehe Voltaire and a handful of

others, maybe the Zen guys and Sartre, Taoist, who say, Yes, this World, this world is good, I accept as it is. In its pain and glory and

I accept that we make it, not some nutty insane detached god, whose wwas most likely created from our own image anyhow. I remember there

are parts of L'Homme en Revolte by Albert Camus _ Man in Revolt, where he speaks of the acceptance of the earth, the love of the earth, &

I think he quotes Hoderlin some poems, about the earth.So I say, yes yes to this world yes, to the Yes at the end of Ulysses by Joyce, and

"the" at the end of Finnegans Wake,the circle of being becoming _ yes to man makes himself of what other men have made him, and better to plunge ahead into our own

mistakes and not that of a god, who supposedely manages it. I accept atheism and its glory, and its experiental basis. For me, at least , this is

the only legitimate way to be on the world. Zen of creation and dharma of death. Jesus and Buddha, Spinoza and the curtains of love and

desire and the music of love and love and music and the world. No matter the suffering, the cost. there is no god, who's accoutnable for the

terrible miseries men have inflicted on other men and women. We must find new paths, and new words, new bodies, if need be. New world, yes,

but all based in the earth and its now, its nowness and its legitmacy and it the valeu of the thissness of the now, and not the farce of

capitalism's illusions. they cannot sell you time, they sell death and loss of breath.
If I think of poetry that says what I feel and believe, it's the poetry of Tzara which was a practice and a way of life , and friends like

Ginsberg _ in the works where he is inclusive inclusive inclusive as in his journals and Kaddish the great lament about his mother's communism

and the visions of her yodelling schizophrenia and break downs, his own sad journey of betrayal ____ and I wont even judge the latter

man and poet, ___ I am tired of judgment in poetry and them that judge pretending to an aesthetic judgement where there is none apart fom

the context of what a man or woman says in her poems. __ what is beauty? what is aesthetic ?? ____as what do I know of his life and secrets

and the good and bad he did , what am I or any writer to assess and judge an other. To end the Judgement of God, to end the stratas of

paranoia and molar muscle terrifyin g the whole earth and grippin it in its muscles tearing it apart destroying it, ruining it, ruling it, running it

ragged, as where I stand, and breath, I too, run ragged and half death, as the quarry on the beach ____, and some of the middle pomes (of G et tant d'autres et tant d'autres).

there are many many poets whose work strives to this and though I cannot name the thousands they are there in the daily, just as I am, and

and others whose poetry, at best, speaks to a vision of manyness and inclusion, and not the exclusions and primaries of captialisms and its hates

and destruction of the world, and world culture. the world has to hit bottom
all Isms must end.
yes god is a lobster but he is also a dog . a cat a word, a boat, a rain fall, a rear guard action of the sun , the moon tilting to love __ all what

you and is is god and god is _ this magic yes, the energy of creaton constantly __She is a cloud nerving the end of time. she is the scroll of

text across eternity's body, the earth. So Yes, Yes,if there is anothe world, it is right here, right here, as Paul Eluard said.
The other world is right here, it is here in the now, in the becomings present of the infinite future. A world for all and its breath the great

inclusive inhalation of love and creation.