lettre livre et ... .


 Le livre ...était un cadeaux ... et tu est libre  et je dis ça avec beaucoup de tendresse  même avec toutes les complications d'une situation comme le notre...... tu n'est pas obligée...  tu était jamais obligée  tu est libre tu est vrai comme moi je suis vrai dans mon corps dans cette ville et toi dans ton cœur dans ta ville



tristan corbiere ~



Mary Magdalene washed Jesus' feet 


                               wiped   his feet with her hair


                 poured water &  nard
                       (from the alabaster jar)

                                                and   dried 

                         kissed his feet  the one she loved
                          her lips
                                         her hair


(Blake illustration)
  ~                                                                                                                      ~


wa y


this way your body speaks

and knows
     the notes of noise   ~

but let no further speak you  



frank kermode

The  literary critic has died Frank Kermode   ~  a perpetually affirmative reader and writer of  texts.

  it is a sad moment in time 

as it will be when Harold Bloom passes

The guardian writer
written a tribute
to him
of which 
this excerpt  ~

'the literature he himself liked best to play against, and master, was complex. He had little time, for example, for Thomas Hardy. Why? Because he felt Hardy gave up his meanings too easily.

The modern poet Kermode most respected was Wallace Stevens – never a writer who yields to the reader without a struggle. Once at Edinburgh in the 1960s (I was there), he mischievously asked the audience if they wanted his easy or his difficult lecture on Stevens. 

We stuffily opted for "difficult" and tried, desperately, to keep the bamboozledom off our faces over the next hour. Kermode was hard to keep up with in those days. '


'In the long years of his retirement at Cambridge he capitalised on his uniquely well-stocked mind to establish himself as a stylish literary essayist. He had, with Karl Miller, helped to found the London Review of Books in 1979. It became the principal outlet for what, in one of his gathered collections, he called Pieces of my Mind. These essays ranged from meditations on the penis of Jesus to Kazuo Ishiguro's Nocturnes and speculations as to whether the resurrection actually happened or was Christianity's finest fiction. A good, though by no means complete, selection is found in his last collection, Bury Place Papers, published at the end of last year.'

 at the london review of books blog

Frank Kermode and the origins of the LRB

'Frank Kermode died yesterday. He was the most erudite man I’ve ever known, and the best company. He had a lovely sense of humour and a smile that — literally — seemed to twinkle. He first came into my life as a distant presence — as General Editor of the Fontana Modern Masters series, ideal material for an autodidact like me. It was only in the 1990s that I got to know him in person, for it turned out that we had a good friend in common. '

from  Memex 1.1



the rain

                          (two are not sure)

    herd of thunder

    passing wheel of night

hither and spawn their gracious


the fog

 beauty's mist


enunciate predicate
shift the vowel
take care of that teething onion
small word 




I saw you        (from the performance)
I saw you
I saw you 
'n two

 nd they tell you you don't work

where are you working now?
are you doing this that and some other obtuse thing...  doing dishes .. say... messenger man.. 
arden tiller

mail man

 H    ow                    to  make the surface of the poem work

Her Uncle lived at

but her uncle was her broth
and Inluding in all movies
 nd they tell you you don't work
where are you working now?
are you doing this that and some other obtuse thing...  doing dishes .. say... messenger man.. 
arden tiller

mail man
_____________________________________ we are spiritualpoeticbecomings


here you go roun'roun dancin
maniac ~

 ____A  ba      Z   A B AAA_____________________________

Now for dis  to make sens e you gotta dance around it like 

flyin' feets in the floooor <>

|Les etapes... les pieds _ the floor _





          /     (he )      /
                                                                   enters the face                                          (of) beauty


                                              via  ~                        her hands /

      that way 

finding the rest space of love   ~ 

if the lyric 
               wont speak

breath's the road







in the child was a body
   the body was

forgot word

forgot bone


've 2


my breath comes    to  you   like   a  child

                        the mouth  cry forbidden wor~s

Carte Natale~Postale non envoyée 

non envelopee 




            the nights and days you've      been alone 

                                        what does that             do         to  a body

w h e  r  e  does  i t  find  col  d               h e a  t 

                          d         e             s             i                  r                   e

                        as hunger                                         and meaning have their way

                                                          death comes knocking on the door

                                         meaning gets lost 




CD_  __   2 years wandering in the old Europe then  to India 1974 we headed and  across the continent and into the other places.. we did not name.. the around the places temples then finding Angkor  Wat  and  over up 'round the 

Khyber trail   -- camped outside and headed over  and around the lines cutting across the 

mother body of India to the Deer Park  Benares and the Bo  tree   ~ Buddha  Saint Bodhisattva   .. wanted to  get back to the fall lectures.. o ver in France...and the heat was devastating and no deva-sura could handle it... as the grand voice would speak.. again but we were caught in the drift...

and we jaunted runnin g the trails the foothills of the Himalayas 
                                                          and we'd heard of the place Tibet.

but there was no time and there were soldiers  there... from China invading packs of wild armies on the mob patrol.. headed by Mao's henchmen.. so aiming back to Europe the long way through the Balkans and into Zagreb and then over to Beograd.... here  was the city of Tito's country and G. said to me do you understand it , that's when we picked up our first cat. ..

CP: these were the early cheap travels?

CD: Aye, aye. there were in them far off times.. our persian maps kept the clock..

On the return we stopped over the Greek islands and over the waters of Priapus.. past the Cyclades and boating over the water.. inland moving on the water.weaves .. on some weird boat... and I made a friend then an English guy and we hit the sea burst waters  turned out he'd been a guy on a sail boat gone all the way to Canada with it... over the Atlantic we swapped  stories... and we moved along closer to Israel.. .the holy land...

...  visited to Jerusalem.. into September and I'd met a poet  older than me some years or so and she'd been there before 1967  war and there was a haunting quality to it and her visit's recounting said as much  she'd met men who ridden with Lawernce.. .and there was  a strange mist rising from the past...

 and the skies surely of Jerusalem have never been forgotten in my head and eyes and ears and hands and tasting the dust of that place the sky..

 CP Did you both make it back to France , and in time , too?

CD Aye aye but barely just with enough ..

CP and your passport from those days?

CD that passport sweated in out life and death in those days all over the place...


imperfect adjustments of night
the sea's day is  thunder

dog rose wandering



.. on e..


    Another two  ~ 

                             think of the sniper and her lover in Stalingrad  ~



               they brought him to the garden

                                              outside of somewhere to see ~

            the garden is what it was  ~  
                                                                 smiling     the man in there ~

                                   Pana  ~  you ~  




                                                    somewhere in the time ~

                  after the abandoned , what? , the cage

jaw bone
moved , felt ,


                                           it's been  long
                                                        don't know how 

(one cant be ashamed for disappearing jaw ) (felt what was not skin there ) (but an empty glory hole    ~) 

                   no one nun
                           alone done


your life is this
a body empty in space
walking alone
the weight

then the pain begins
it's the
rocks ~


this is a man who's been punished
for willing the impossible

seeing the blind

punished for being punished
punished for being ashamed

You are punished for being punished for being punished for being

guilty  to breathe
      to alive
               to look
                        guilty to want   ~  guilty
to be guilty   ~ 

removed low god dead low  


 the cage?  the dirty cage  
                                             think         Fallaci meeting Panagoulis

                                   after    ~


Working towards


Pound Milton _____________ ExPress  the train of sound glory and words

 I am working towards completing a longish post about Pound Milton and others. the negative  in criticism is what drives me crazy.

negative meaning it is not constructive and its fundamental ground work is refusal reje ction, destruction ___ the sense of negate is to push away what is there and pretend it does not exist __ why does an artist do this? for his own purposes only the rest is gravy and perhaps any pretences to objectivity at that level are just gravy and patch work, soup mix, spuds and potatoes....

  __ whereas in reality i think it is not so much criticism as polemics poetic polemics the shifting of one aesthetic to another  

__ it is hot  too hot  in mOntreal these days. this sort of heat makes no sense. heat like this is a bad poem. ! what? a bad poem weather? weather a poem? of incalculable dimensions



li v in


livin' alone
eating alone
 born alone
dying alone