~ snow and

 17 inches! 45 centimeters of snow record fall since  Ages! ago!

 as for Christmas why not a Communist Christmas for alll and the charity it sometimes inspires spread to the whole earth all its citizens and animals.

   I                               w  a   s                  dr e aming of   a  Red Christmas!

and now  a few words of Arthur  R               .              i .         m.

N'eus-je pas une fois une jeunesse aimable, héroïque, fabuleuse, à écrire sur des feuilles d'or, - trop de chance ! Par quel crime, par quelle erreur, ai-je mérité ma faiblesse actuelle ? Vous qui prétendez que des bêtes poussent des sanglots de chagrin, que des malades désespèrent, que des morts rêvent mal, tâchez de raconter ma chute et mon sommeil. Moi, je ne puis pas plus m'expliquer que le mendiant avec ses continuels Pater et Ave Maria. Je ne sais plus parler !
Pourtant, aujourd'hui, je crois avoir fini la relation de mon enfer. C'était bien l'enfer ; l'ancien, celui dont le fils de l'homme ouvrit les portes.
Du même désert, à la même nuit, toujours mes yeux las se réveillent à l'étoile d'argent, toujours, sans que s'émeuvent les Rois de la vie, les trois mages, le coeur, l'âme, l'esprit. Quand irons-nous, par-delà les grèves et les monts, saluer la naissance du travail nouveau, la sagesse nouvelle, la fuite des tyrans et des démons, la fin de la superstition, adorer - les premiers ! - Noël sur la terre !
Le chant des cieux, la marche des peuples ! Esclaves ne maudissons pas la vie.

b .                                                        a.                           u          .                            d.




 how does it feel to have your head on backwards

 standing near the sink
you almost feel it falling

 puffed out brain and hair pent with the wheelies
 motorcycle rider




the brain hand

    ~ thee wild child

  married four times

                                 eight corners of the world

  compa  ny and complaints of the tea taker

a risible laughter in your thighs

   a   poet on the run

         from your eyes and such a matter to grace the hour   ~.



these and those


Crooks crooked!!!!


And you andshe
have got imperious
buttocks girl go in
front of me.


  is this three

Jack Kerouac is still my writer


when alone I am against the great
------ hordes
released on society

____but o that woman
pausing on the
escalator was
attractive!_ ssheshe took
my breath away


does anyone hear pain
(cant find a question mark mark ,  as they say)

Time and space are over.

and then this:

they re
wrong forced
     is wrong and dominant  .


 six and six

There are no phones.
in. hell!

Bottom of my heart.

Love is a body.


Between    6 and        and a half

 I am just this side of


Princely go town till
dec 5________________note no
the meeting question
of How yoi doing it
kills the spirit Of
joY____The immediate
Recognition at
seeing someone and
the energy that
ensueS I saw it
tonight is a form of
control__ puts the
one asked on the

as opposed to let it happen    ___ breath _ silence
beginning    .



The ugly widow_are
all widows uglyÉ
Dùeath is absolute and
often makes the still (stiff)
livin ugly .


what s up dude did
you havev cornflakes 
for supper
Chopsuey for
lunch___ was 
hamburger mary
      give me  a  call

i got a situation
-remember the last 
time I said talk to 
me__it s one me

9 and  a half

The rain just started
here and the the
temperatu r  e   is
terrors may winter

                                    t  e                            e              n

inward last nigh night
  haunted and hau



le seul livre de Flaubert que j ai lu
est  La Tentation de Saint Antoine

et les autres comme Bovary non

 et pourquoi pas 

au contraire le vrai question c est pourquoi lire  ce livre
j ai commence un traduction  

et  cette histoire cette style cette temps m a pas tirer

c n etait pas mon lutte

lite rature en général avec un grand L

laisse un mal odeur dans ma bouche

mais a chacun son fuite...

mais alors j e vie dans la poésie
  et les autres

comme la roman de ton corps


puis on poser la question après Joyce pourquoi lire Monsieur Flohohohobert!

même si Jean Paul Sartre avez écrit son grand tome sur lui Flaubert L idiot et ça Famille!L'Idiot de la famille 




 and how does it feel to have your head on backwards

 and standing near the sink
you almost feel it falling

 puffed out brain and hair pent with the wheelies
 motorcycle rider

 and you can come back to this later lady as your lover speaks to you
  from three thousand miles away
  and  5 years
  entering the fingertips of your love
damned by the night
 heightened by day

    a  kiss surging down those night years
  those day moon and sun details that make a  moment of the crying one
  rearing his head calling you back

like any lover does crying to his lady
  i am spent spent i am spent without your love





if love knew its name we'd all be happy
but death come chopping block
war to go bomb boom bomb
a teacher failing her students
went to South America
riding the river in Brazil

and knocking her hands on the door eternity
took her last breath and died
her breasts heaved with the sigh takig her spirit

each day his body grew more painful dying in this spirt of longed away

they took his money
his hope
his clock
took his shoe laces
his shoes left and right
knocking down the seat on which he lived like a
saint pulling the tide down on his head
working day and night the
saint on the long high column not a bourgeosie
but a worker a worker's saint
the long saint on the column
a pillar
at the edge

what was that guy's name the
crazy guy living on the pillar

Symeon the Stylite

Simeon Stylites
that was not me

the first time they put me in prison i was 12
i think and it went downward hill from then spiral
ling down into the echo of the
hunger day and torture

and the hours of a n urba desert choking me
o n its food

and years of hunger
and the hands

_ and there was more to come
i n the book you're writing

__ between if and what and between meals
affection and love missing like a dog kicked its ass down
the street of its blue worn weather

(something neither she nor the others could grasp)

and more to come i n the book you're writing



i s ho t is ...

Montreal is cold, but my heart is hot.
night's longer days shorter
pray for peace wherever you go whenever you are
you are you you are me and we ~ .



... Storm warning....'

Storm warning / batten them hatches brother/ 
  check them curtains sister/watch yer flowers/lady/ 
                         bust that gallon mista /say a parley to the god/of wind/rage storm/

Pray that Hurricane Away.

Reading in this strata and that: Doctor Sax _ Jack Kerouac. The Trial by F. Kafka, which I read before but am redoing . In between these readings writing, and other things. I write the books and texts that I read. I study read again, read, study again, read. Start over, push off, pick up, mutate, continue. Eat, walk, live, love.______________________________________________ 

 if yer gotta stand on yer head/ then breath/ yer nose/ 
 cut the cups/ dig, the feet/

__________________________  Montreal is a strange city between 'all' things

 and rigging in i ts multitudes it doesn't care about philosophy but about love and blindness and a  woman a ma and a bed in a room a cloud  a turning

     a river a walk along its border
       a detour 
   pressing its escape    ~



Out of their

~~  C.P. So is everything you write fiction?

C.D. Everything except me. And what would be you if you were you.

Mona holds a seizure and  a disease of real folk. A tender thing between her pitching legs and the tent.

No! not the tent! jILL  winging the fair wind of wrestled__ no  no trestle pieces, and bicycled paces. Hum her . Hum of her wiggle. A set of eye fair to brown startle the tree heads out of their places.

________________________along the rusty button a geyster bashing the sky!

It's Mona  and a ruin or another reunion to the dare double plus tie.

 her prisoner has his own jag
  infinitely discovered 

in that absconded area whee the accents hum revolt
not language or bonding but freedom 

but your back is sore and her buttocks are butter ___

Equal  partings and different heart hammering the dayblue glow.

he's haunted by the  boot on her foot. It taps across the city     A tough weed for parking lots.Along the plank  a dareme devil tune



and and


 Doctor Dada you gotta redo some of them phrasing  ... the riff got tangled in the wirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeee of the blues you was flinging

'Flinging' he says
mud  as in the wrought sigh world and patter and ringround the matter.

Okay you gotta redo those. what does it mean to redo.

iMagine first tries
   and imagine

each phrase  is  a duck shoot and when you perform the voice yelling an yowling!

how hell that hound to the phrase beat 

 Drop that horn baby
you aint no poet you a performer born
to soul and knoll

like  a woman's ass rolling churning burning the boy's heads
in the summer heat beat acrossyour balls
in wish that' s want in the one that's one
in the woman's about to be woman's legs shaped as the fire wood
burnt by the skull of thollhe voodoo god dolls

O no that was a riff imrov 2  3   1  a Renoir painting doll eyes
exquisite to the center  direct

and now the rolling sigh
of bodies after love calling 

moon sun stare and star
wish for the relief of the air
sweeping along over the traces of the hollow of their bodies

not like the 'exquisite' caftan the craftsman gild and roof
but the surreal bacon of your beats
not the heat of american puritan
nor the fear of canadian parliamentary comprise compromise
bu t the long shadow of true love  
   not the repressed thing of puritan american closed down criticcal paranoia

but the way her ass wiggles twentyffirst centry black woman high on her ground

to be a square is not to stare
   staring aint neither square nor cool
but the bodies attitude to the stare is what says it all
what's cool is not the ear nor ass but the carrying horse crying call

  and the naked ass kissed by the lip

and the ring in the pose at the end of the pier

and the music rattling the shore




imagine... First tries ...

 Who would foresee this way
  it's heart of the sword history a bastard massacring its father

and the rough sword caring its knee
    the wild hedge road the near wood

 its been time and half naked wonder
  spared at its flesh wound
  her betrayal upturned lips
  never to see a hooked fish sperm
  railed to its present
          m o m e n t

nor the liar of race and religion
raving at the plus cadet  the rugged woman her hat spooned out
 at the upturned jaguar

nor that anyone knowing matters making a difference to the true path and free
as the tombstone the halter lies kicking up the horse
where he lies
dust under his rainbow brief

who'd hear that word
pedalled by union and division multiple signs
 ghost of tender morning fortune its playpen
 grappling the awkward heel of intent

  the rough sword carving its knee would imagine

  ~       ~



 Who would foresee this way
  it's heart of the sword history a bastard massacring its father

  Now that's not the word
    is it? a tender taming of  f ox
              and right

   between each
     not nickle or plate gulf or sea
    nor the random chance of reverse going goal nearing time past
           past the one who you thought and thought nor
t he near rearing of this desperate demise
                  desire a queer sort of soldier
  brought out by the word sucker the tenderest shoot
  of its belly preeminent among things

    and your red dress
    this meal acquiring its balance at your feet





O kiss the ass of the cold and fuck everything   ~

o o  ohohohoho! yes siree it's that awful time of the year
   as Rimbaud said ' life really is horrible...'

  but fuck that. get it between the teeth. a deck of dollars.
 Sioux fall rapids. im a n punk hippy doctor doodadada dahdada
not impressed with nose rings or pink colored hair
or eyepads
electric books

im  not impressed with cheap 'in'  tuition
and capped gowns
nor the bullshit that goes round and round

i like cigarettes and screwing
   and i m not happy when my fiends   pay 37 bucks for  a couple a hamburgers and fries
and  a  can or 2 of water.

what shit.
but the tickled rich get richer with their shit and condomoniums
and condoms
and wars
and space wards
and shit

and shit





Don't stand on your head! stand on you feet between!

between what DoctoR?
  between your asscheeks?
or the sun between
   or the rayon glad beam of your butt?
  but what's  abutt but cream
f or the lovers

and the rest of the turd turkey farm dung!

a she goat making  a hell-sound on the hill!
  hollyhocks! hills! dales! valleys! cliffs! abysses! mountains! O peak!
   O peak of your breast!!

 what a ruin this forest is           ~.


is the moon red?

is the moon red  with your sighing
   are you dying?
  does it ring with a  passage of moaning?

____ a strange sarong! a song of your body
          like  a blossom  twisting into the air's scent
a  tinsel tune of making connecting returning

is it red with your calling?





I never saw your eyes
  I never tasted your lips
  or held your waist my arm slung around it
   like  a lover's brooch
hooked onto your hip
 gliding riding
 connecting two to one

time's going
   eternity's drumming
the dead are speaking
 the living are waking

Never woke with you by my side and
  life is running fast as days shuttering night
    and friends are dying
  season and season and hours into night
hold a  scape clear to the landscape at the end

and we know how folly works its brain
 a n  d   the hurt are hurt
    the wars never end
civil and global
   in this patterning disappearance of peace

but it's always been that hasn't it?
  men and women caught between the troubles of the crazy and violent
between space and greed time and hate

some say this is not poetry some say this is spelling words on water
  on the sun
men of power
dictate who's lonely who's not who travels who excells and  not

and life carries on  a fortune for the few
democratically dreaming of its new beginnings and hurt
only really gets going as it looks to be ending

remembering its right to vengeance  mortal pain
and the judges wait as they do
hammering away gavels at the awful front of what they do

I never seen your eyes
  I never held you hand
  I never got inside you
riding riding we riding two lovers in the hitch

       I never seen you eyes

I never kissed your lips yet
   not yet no not yet
   but life's not over
   life's not at all over
           life's not over



and again

someone knows you're looking  but not you

  thumbnail screws

    like have a  coffee tingle that thing tingle thing
as which to was  rang the bell right down your door
thing thing take  a  thing and  ring

someone knew you were coming dying but  not you
  nor the ones said what they said did what they said as 
not  a  word once came across the dark blue deep and the wrecking shine
captured plane heart 
reeled on its standing stock still





first they beat 'im
  then crushed 'im
  knocked his head  in

   after that it was uphill
            all the way down the darling staircase
  upway the tramway and knocking back   puffing
    the street car switching   
             a  fat man running



escaped the world
     and its crime a penchant for crying lying seeing bent shapes in every wood row
knocking leafs back to their preparing      flare
  f l  a  t t ened by the word breath 

    your lips escaped the world


prisoner of mirror


fo r the prisoner of distance

 your body gets used to it being alone
  and dying
   warped by sentiments you cant control
   the despairing feeling you'll never be alone again
haunted by geese ghosts and paynims
  but what matter these gabby garbs?

   and the field or the sky overcome with beauty
            and the prisoner


 for the prisoner has his own joy
   a city ever his own
  infinitely discovered

  and your absence is like a pen in his hand
   waiting for the word
   lips  yours 

            escaped into the world



My angel translators. My angelic transfigurations. As I . 

___________                                    ______________________________________


ok repost it again remand standing standing remanded

 like a prisoner remanded to trial a lover to chains and the holly bush
  or the crafting technique spilling its flute

   and the second hand guess the ever evading sonnet of this work in regress
   and the divisive nature of your soul
    this poem continues
              and you have deprived me of your love
               like a slave that's lost

  and having died for you i am no one

and if only prisoners spoke
   and P. B....ant was stupid  a gangster barren of love's burden
  so cheap to kill shots doing harm on others
no lover behaves like that
   there's no like  that
        no 'like' 'like'


remanded standing

 standing  as a miracle


 working like hours

working hours

days and then  night dishonours itself
flicking chains

rubbing whips

if fear were  a word  
 god's have no love

god who has  loved  your body
before time and eternity

  temerity to the dozen lover's like
    and the plague or the bubonic fever




  you walked centaur a horse reared into the sun

you disappear(ed)  between a  lover's face
  one who betrays me   ~


~ and


and does it stand as a miracle?
   one wonders
  at miracles working like flowers

  each hour
  working between
   elves and midgets lovers running away on buses
   sitting on their asses




~ and what

C.P..... and what were you doing in China? learning to write? to meditate to catch becomings on the lisp edge of a fly? or to remove being from becoming....

C.D. I went to China before I had my son.  Before having ason I saw that intensity was in the roundness of the earth. My son, who I imagined as a god in the old sense that  a god himself gives birth to a demideity.... O! I know you're going to say I am crazy! 

C.P. yes yes... what was that about being a god?

C.D. I speak in figures and fingers of speech that are practically intensities to the bearing of our  becoming.. with bodies how else can one be?

Well being is not becoming it's a   feeelllllllling!
what ho!

Women , sometimes understand this welll.......enuffffffffffffffffffffffffffff   ~ !    !!!!




think again


 it must be with the feathers of the moon that 'i'   kiss you   ___(but you are not (t)here)
                               must be    

 the dance of the sun  is clearly in your eye  (clearly?)
between your  hips and sunset your down feather bed is awake
as a dream perpetuates its talk
                   gasping a swimmer in his    its   arms

who comes to spy on   you but love 
    and a  troubled tongue 

 a far country as napes to a neck bending in the rare sun. no one

 but anyone'd find these words   anyone the rare sun. caring for
its taper     a  poet works as  a machine   
   here come the dimes and words
the shared instant of its permanent grasping  its permanent pennant

  a man finds a penny in the glove compartment. compatible summers unite him with the worthies of his tenancy

                                                   old English goes back a long way

      the Celtic tongue knocking its seed past ruin


an experimental poet

                               taking  archive            reaching

over  space   say space     
        Franny holds her rocking chair

                          A new period sentence  arises 

                                    Period pace face

Come again                     The reader   printer  tuck between the moving experimental life   nomad

            homad duffy  traveler in the city  

                         This is unknown to a thousand scenting 

  After you get rid of the periods it's better. Her voice works like an illuminated light? through the page...  thus the seeing .... wonders?

  between this line
 and the one below 
   is where you rest your head on my lap
              it's there  we   




-.... it was the atmosphere... no t

 How did you do all that travelling?

At the time,   I was smart, wily, I knew how to use what was there... and it was the atmosphere.. people on the move...you see what I mean? .... I started young.... and the more I did  the better I got. I got to know people all around the world... continent to continent....    ~!   over the seas, and around the lighthouses......

 it changed change.... After the  90's (the yellow nineties!) it metamorphosed and became a different trip. Lucy, a friend , moved to Singapore... I had students that offered me places to stay  .You know what I mean..... here ... there...  Or over here, one  day.... here and another few days somewhere else...

And then it changed again and for sure, it's going to change yet more.

C.P. But how did you manage to lie to people claiming you had not travelled? what was that  motivated by?

You lied quite frequently to lovers,  and friends, telling them you had not travelled.

C.D. hahahha I am a writer, I tell stories, that is i make up things, I lie quite easily... it's part of the territory....

C.P. And you had quite a correspondence with a woman who I now believe lives in Toronto?

C.D. It was not really a correspondence it was a series of poem letters that I sent her. I had met twice maybe three times...
                           Later she called me. when she was in Montreal and we met. She was .. blonde.. her hair.. I remember hair  ... I , her hands, I took her hands... she was good... I mean her heart was , unlike some of the others I was to meet later....hard hearted and cold and self-seeking, ambitious.... opportunists..... But most of the lovers, the loves in my life were not like bad... not bad... and I love all women, you are all beautiful, gods, vessels to me, even those who are not beautiful are messengers .. of what you ask? of life .. messengers of life and what's good about it... life itself and its procreation, its creation, its ongoingness.... a woman on the street....

C.P. what about Greece ? you went there after you returned from the East...

C.D.  I didn't stay long... that time...  a week maybe 12 days? I got out of there... I heard about what was happening  in the prisons... I felt dirty .. before too long... we went back to France... I listened  to talks being given by Deleuze and others over at Vincennes... we'd stay then head to the south to work... I went around like that like others.......


    C.D.  a woman on the street... 


________________yet ~


but we're all savages anyhow   ~  as the night darkening over earth light rays up the sun over the cambering
   earth which    ~
    then the rain    ~  and your  hair which i've never tasted    ~
        and the wet  weening      ~

                          and other things    ~   such as horns and trumpets   ~

                                            the silver lining in every cloud    ~ .


__________________ from tapeTo

C.P.  Here's then  a question I think I've asked you previously.... How about; did you marry? And  was it in 

1978? To a woman named G. M.?

C. D. Ha! you're funny.  I told you before those are secret questions. How could I answer and tell the rest of the story? it's as if a strong box had no opening, or a  book that I was writing had no beginning nor end.

C.P. And  what about the new  book you said you're writing? Where is it? were you on detour détournement  deterritorialization? You talked about___

C.D. There is no book and there is a book there is a body and no body a life and no life poetry and prose memoy and invisible memory memory of books you have not read and maybe some of those you might have had things been different in your life....  I never said I was writing a book ... I said I was writing and everything is writing my life is always in situation in relation to what I am writing be it great or small big or little... I mean what do I tell you about a life as big as mine..think of the work I have done.... how do I account for it? it's gigantic... what you know too is bigger than what you see.

 I told  someone once who wanted to be a writer that I was writing all the time. That reviews ought to be written by prostitutes and mental patients and that writers are  outside that any real writer is outside. For  me the others don't exist And the same goes for painters, and musicans. I don't mean it's all the same for each type of artist but the real artist and the great ones are artist. Even if they lie to themselves and say otherwise.

comic sans msI have never had anything to do with the mainstream idea of writing. Neither its production, or its creation.  To me, that is all hogwash, and furthermore it's not just to me. Objectively it is not writing, nor are the books produced under that aegis writing , and the same thing applies to any of the activties associated with that idea of writing.. the theatre... the novesl, poems, shot stories what have you....  what I'm saying goes across the spectrum ....... Not writing at all. I don't fit in there at all. I don't speak their language nor do I read their books. There is a class, a wall,a  barrier that separates me from there, and the seperation is forever.  Is it a class thing, an economic thing, a language thing? it's that and all and more and worse. Deeper, further, wester  worse. You could say I write to stop writing. I am not sure. Or maybe I write to say I . When I am finished saying I maybe it will be over. I contradict what I told someone recently Between this writing  right here... which is speaking a nd that writing over there , there is a world of difference, but the difference should be left alone to hold its own.  Deleuze and others like him understood this, and that is why we liked him, and how he was able to teach across so many domains, transversal as they like to say.  That difference being legitimate on its own terms not with reference to some big guy universal... like the catholic church or the creed of aesthestics o r the idea that is a way to write a book, construct a character and live a life that is the way, that there are no others that are not lesser  whereas as all  bodies are good in their own energy and the anxiety of the white middle class is precisely their own anxiety in the face of the world, and there is no world either I tell you no  world with a big W just a world with many

And you ask what a character is?

C.P.  and your son?

                               your daughter?

C.D. that too is a secret that I will tell you about another day

maybe   and maybe I won't. After all it's  a secret
 not a chess game.

C.P. However you write, and writing is a life. C.D. A life to life    ~.

C.D. And Greece and Japan and France, and Ireland, and Russia and Italy and Brazil, and 
  New Orleans, the Mississipi, and Colorado and New Brunswick Newfoundland the great banks, the roar, and Argentina, and New Zealand, and Asia and China, and Belize and German east and west and Poland and Prague, and Athens and Sparta Rome and Vienna Andorra, Portugal, and the Slovak country , Uruguay Niger and Benin, and Vietnam and almost Tibet and near the Antartic, and the northern provinces Canada and  Belgium2 times  to the great bear  the Soviet Union and the Russia of Russia and Mexico and Hibernia and Ireland and Scotland Spain and the Prado and  Iceland Norway Amsterdam Denmark Luxembourg Monaco Malta and Bologna and Trieste India Thailand  Indonesia MalaysiaMicronesia and Bolvia a donkey trail a raft boat mooring


C.P. what did you do in Gdansk ?

C.D. I went to see and I did nothing. I wanted to see for myself . But we all know what happened, and or at least we think we do.... I came back. I came to Canada because there were other troubles in my life and that took some time and a lot of work to get past.

C.P. And that took how long? three years?  to sort some problems out?

C.D. I went to hear the lectures at Vincennes again  from the early 80's until the end. 

C.P. Your dates and your travelling are intertwined like books on shelves that invert and convert back to front and front to side and they rotate and collide and collude.

C.D. You say that very well.  You walk nicely through a  hidden life.



and rain of


and working and livin' and new book and interviews and detouenment and b ody of grace and moving and candor and return and no one and none and work and book and new book and writing and  a life of

  writing and living and  and this   and   solitude and

  back to the west and back to Vancouver and return Montreal and leaving  leaving living
      a far away a safe  place   a   place  safe      s  a   f   e     a  s   the  s   u     n     ~ .


More travel recording interview from the tape archives.


C.P. So Mister Duffy did you get Zen when you were in India, or did you get it in Japan? Or did you ever get Zen? Was Zen really what interested you and drove you to travel so far across the world at the age you did, or was it the times, and the freedom those times seemed to give someone like you?

C.D.   Good Questions. But I never told you when I was in Japan did I? but yes I was. It was after a year in and out and out of France (in 73 and 74) and hearing the lectures at the Universitie Vincennes that I did decide to try and go off to Japan and do the sitting thing. But I did tell you already that I was never able to sit still back then.... now I can because I write. I hated meditation and sitting still. But when I was hearing those lectures and Professor Deleuze was talking about his ideas of territory and escape and the rest of them, I had the impulse to fly over over the earth. I wanted to go East as fast and far as I could. Of course, I did not fly. I had no money. I hitch-hiiked to India, and then we took boats, and buses, and a more rides on trains then one final plane ride got us there. ... I told you all of this already....  I think we can discuss other things.... 

C.P.  .... yes, yes. Okay so what happened in Greece? and when were you last in France.

C.D. I was in France in 2006, and I went to Ireland as well. I had things that I thought were related to my studies that brought me there.    But the great period for me until around 1989 and then again in 1992..... I mean it was geat for me personally as I was learnig and really living. As for Greece I went there because after India and Japan I needed to sort of get my head back ... get it back into a way of looking at things that was familiar....

  Tape is broken.   It is reel to reel and because of the events of the time, and the horrible crushing disaster that befell  it was left off. And the disaster? the disaster is what became of the world. The small world gotten smaller .  And stupider . and with the hordes of stupid yapping barbarians  . voices screaming them selves hoarse. until the unleashing of the atom bomb destroyed them . All. all. AlL.  gone boom! pash! vamoose! gone! poosh! disintegrated into the air....     with nothing not a  trace of cellular memory of the little fucks that ruined this world..... gone in the atomic air and the bashing bomb . landing in the earth ..... of their mouth.

   Crushing their.. vile tongues... forever and ever. foriver and iver   ~.




                        O the telephone---I am in the north pole 




what's that about?
  her body?
secret nave
   and pressing leaves against her head
    bald and swooning    ~.

a lover body Mona on the fail fragments of hill   ~.




  C. P. And how many times did you cross the Pacific, the Mediterrean and Atlantic?

C.D. You forgot the Indian Ocean! And some othe bodies of water. But to answer your question, I guess I went over  ,   let's see , 20 times? no, it's got to be more....  We'll get there. You have to remembe I was not looking then!  I mean how do I count getting to England and then Ireland by boat? That's the Irish Sea between Liverpool and Eire...   Does it count if I went for just  a week, then returned and went back again by boat and plane? And when I came back to Canada, does that count as one when I did not return  for about 11 months?


C.D. then yes, I was in France off and on for  a decade   say? back and forth from there to Ireland and back to    Canada 


where a retouch

  where does the first one go?
   i n my mail box.
   along with you.
  between my keys.

a retouch

Now leave out the . Period. Reference to past. Allusive. And the wayward curve of her hip. what's left out between the electronic pages.

(Oh lover)

 'this evasive touch of finger tip to lip
hushing the whisper years later
not a voice speaking
 but a  lover hovering.'



does anyone understand  homage
              it ilks the  road

  not a close spent to the hour of living
   the glass doormat
  a  friend    framing Isabelle's word

  noting the hour the fragment
   finger to her lips Oh  ~

O this evasive touch of finger tip to lip
hushing the whisper years later
not a voice speaking
 but a  lover hovering.


Nobody knows the name of this place
   the way you do     ~.
                                solitude     ~.


 if air was your name i'd be there with you
   as it is earth meets water
    but our kisses don't greet

   the wayward tendencies of   ermine gift
   enemies laced with wool

  and the sovreign dummy of length

   nor the lover's cry nor the coachbacked hair
  and old lover's double-double on the there on their
    their on there   ~