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   ~