as it turn(ed)s out Tennessee Williams read a bunch of Crane 's poems  fr instance O Carib Isle
----------------------------___But where is the Captain of this doubloon isle
                                                Without  a turnstile?

___________________ hearing someone witha  voice read these poems returns or brings out the truth that it's the voice bringing what is often unheard in the page or silently kept waitin' for a reader to take (it) off and off the page and in the Mouth of Air and Breath

 ____________________  . one has to hear a voice a  strong enough one one suited that is to occassion of (the) reading at hand       and often  that is not the case

 __________--changes one's head
                                                                          he reads it outside of myself thus
I am able to hear what I could not before
  as my head was caught in the taillights of the poem

--course this doesnt work with every poem nor with any voice

         there are a lot, i guess thousand s that could read better but they dont as they never learned
or were show a better way to elocute and perform whats before their eyes before them

So then One can ask before any given text (of Poetry) where is it taking place best and how and how is my relation to it?
i ask this and state as its something i connect t o the work i do

                        between the virtual an d real readings of a  text
    an the aural visual ./head /virtual blog thing and the difference , of course, between the wet printed text of any kinb,              and  its  Screened version


' ...I remember reading that Hart Crane wrote at times to the sound of records because he liked the stimulus and this pushed him to a kind of openness that he could use. In any case, the necessary environment is that which secures the artist in the way that lets him be in the world in a most fruitful manner.'

 The re cord player was Crane's radio as with Jack Spicer, or with Jean Cocteau's Orpheus movie. Spicer, like Crane was alcoholic.

Robert Creely   1968


what happen'd to the verb?S

Hart  crane and his weird verbs... what's happened /ing /in the bird-cage bridge but the singing the things gottato be sung to be understood/ to be dugged to dig its' sawing /swaying heighth  breadth/was it not sung/walked?

walked sun
  sung walk  as the beat the beats it charts navigate the sea stretching out from his weather of earlier to the latter


that's after reading the letters in an old edition marked out an scored then re-readin theBridge.

----------------maybe not literarlly as in an old fashioned song
  but another one  /we ought to invent

theres an amazing recording of Tennesee Williams readin an exerpt of t he bridge that/i recently heard

   theres a lot of reading/s on youtube already bt i aint heard them all by a long shot


one think i hate is the idea of polish
in cranes poems

some readers      conjure that up a lot 
or from time to time

and they of course

like to talk about levels

which again oversounds the old idea that these things gotta mean so many things on  


explaining in poetry does have limits/ the bridge/i mean shit its a collage
  think in  of Zone by Appoolinaire
                  where does the busted piece of a poem start and end  /Anyhow NEveRMind then here's Williams reading to Brooklyn Bridge

____ turns out Williams read more than this one section! how lucky we are!
(thanks to 
for posting


Re__________________----------: the tink fong


 she was
  not she
  no she
   no share

                                                             Well lets say there were beside points in that. one keeping the machine going does not say I. I is something one has to two bore through behind back to the shape of Eye prior to seeing. We need an Ear. 
  at fictions comeuppance its' their. but not a highlapsed yield.

                                                                           tink fong

 we get weary fed off with any language accented traipse!

Now fee 
 Mona's  any old soap-dodging ass face. Scruffy as a old dirty bucket.



as she wuark



the tink fong


between dogs and eyes the white Rome of  sun
    latitude makes for breakfast at the Tate
rig it hold its nose rag that rose
on our  buttonhole
none bold than the two that creep on the gulp of  the tink fong

so my ancestors travelled by boat and train and cart from Poland and Ireland and Ireland
                                                           the East was a wide steppe
                  Ireland and and the Kraków   Garden of Eden

                                                     and things turn

   things burn with an I accent
                                   a R on the surf pull of every V
   they   vary 


                         of course they wont let you go back you

                                             these are coinautomatic countries forced to stay  they are the populace are prisoner to the pillar of community   and the poat and potatoe factory go dry



You coming back to this then?
Yes I would as it's got a night not clear. Avid as your eye. Reading me with your handeYesexed look . Left for you ago.  as when to wench.

 Come again?
    Not fore its parent.


   As papers think of them the election scrawl. A poster's paper reft by every seeming one.

--------------------  in the 'end ' every accent is sickening    ~


But start again with V. Jill harries 'down' three shore of her weft boom. Its fong boong wrestle with the hitch. On her fair forelock of . Not one again ! don't tergiversate it away. A reft come rue.   Hidden by cladestine its Jill foray fate.

 Its  greif to a brief. No we trundled turned came forward not speaking of commodies and the bed lay gentle as an arrant leaf. O she rhyme. Mona's forward pass its . Agas. Ligthening shift cant come to stop. Fell or not otherwise. Look back at that match over a libel fruit.A leg bod and holding the grue fruit accompanying the able chimney sweeper waving her hair up the caboose. That's Jill heavy by swimming forts.:

As its not too serious


Jill sees her first a hardon with her girlfriend. then grand transferring it to Franny who's fanny used to the buttock heel.

behovely thing to which she belongs and the transcendent bum of her loving. this "

________Now if that was yr lover how the desert'd burn your feet . to say your sexsocks'd burn
across the grand bison of time!!  hAIL THEEE ho Mona. Buckshot boogie!"




niether being the first and last to
  it could be sweet as lust does
its work across the sky love's butter is a cool
sum working its reign above the passages of the cupboard and heaven's own

firmament  ~ they say its form reform deform conform love's house-mate and
her eyes swerved subtle a sheet of rain changing direction
  head tilted slightly sideways
  he wouldnt agree with that loss of

breath and punctuation and the night. her body trailed. her mouth yellow as the fauve works of dye her hands monochrome red  . and imagine the other one writing after all these years not a word then this .  a shame on the pattern the path she mistook  ~ Odes Jill has a hearing portion to the errant portly light of her love should an ode hold her hands around my waist ? I left the other behind  neither first nor last but between we'd hold our own 

     Come back there after wouldya then? Yes Iwould as eating not eradicatering's called my name. Her hooligan hollow dress!





Is anyone here?

Posted by Picasa
   -----------------------> (2001 August)

held by the dogs of night
not light's 

fair feather

and the coming






... the time comes open the

perpetual birds don't deceive anyone at all and if
 my eyes don't see is because you are the narrative?
of what  wishing for's got them blind

as a telephone pole ripping apart two feet of the calls
  you made thus deception pulls the veil back but you
phrase it distinctly  and that's as it ought to be otherwise
I'd be your sentence walking over the screen of your palimpsest

my dear richer than any onion ring of  thieves or men

Now Jill's the honey bee of the loving fill /not a kill
mind you but a woman's dressed for every need wayward
on any pack/

your words inspire as those conversations did that discourse of
 plenty and want enjambing   your words   ties the cords more closely

Now breath deep ocean maker make your soul Big as incarnate
wombs with a factory of them for me as your child riant rainbow
lucked into your fancy your sex peel

   crying out

my eyes get smaller
   in the dark

seek rooms that are hidden between the rings

Mona pulls the strings jiggering her fictions of fantasy and the rependent perfection its story telling hilarity

  blablabla don't worry about birds an bees
   we got beds rivers plantains, merry go rounds, scoundrels
hundreds of layers of peat to dig under

 come with your breasts to my mouth
   so wandered


Comment forsooth I'd have you see a far cry hull mugger in the wind.
A lipsynch to Toronto in the rain of your hands
  A drive between automobiles and sight

red wine and tablets of chewing gum

A wish for every fox and wolf you wanted to save
  and finding me instead in its place
I called  -----    to                    your name

      if the time comes open the door



take your de... smaller


is that new? knew who knew  abog creating one thimble cross the reach of text print /or eye as bespeaking its range blind-eye to lover-man as its rich marks a spice road a silken pace at . No. its welll it works around and outside of that. frame. yes /ok. what? fear nothing  everything is going. grog to the night still piece to its pricking ace. In the hole and dog. A shit knight lonesome as an isolation. .. take your construction



 _ I suppose today's sickness spreading readily and rapidly is 'how are you' 'how are you' its a tick a convulsion compulsion


 _____________ I like this it's typical Mark Twain reversing the normal views . Rare to come by ; think of what happens to Milton and how his Satan is perpetually view'd as the 'bad' guy.

                                                        But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most, our one fellow and brother who most                                                                      needed a friend yet had not a single one, the one sinner

among us all who had the highest and clearest right to every Christian's daily and nightly prayers, for the plain and unassailable reason that his was the first and greatest need, he being among sinners the supremest?

                         - Mark Twain's Autobiography

 =========================== the god of immnence is always on the run
                                            viz Satan


notes and

Points Sings


InfInIte Commentary '..whose muse on dromedary trots, Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots ; Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue, Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.' Shit!

cooking things over there around blogger ville_ in the speed between intensity and desire a word smashes apart its connection. What can one say to these bits of clear_ed text which hook up the death of things, boding forth their renewal?

' wonder just what sort of medium Kerouac's poetic "eye" is. Does he literally expect people to visualize the scenes he's writing about? Or are "eye" and "picture" more like structuring media / frames / structuring bodily metaphors / instrumental grammars at the limits of bodily similarity (and the torsion of unity-difference, abstraction-particularity, etc. etc.), the flow of language and its associational resonances?... or is it a means by which the writer stays on the wild edge of accuracy and the sudden shiftings of a scene, in its exact particularity, into language as precise as economically possible (still reducing the visual to the categorical abstractions of language, never being as all-encompassing or as precise in visual detail as a painting, perhaps not even involving any actual visualization on the part of the reader,

beyond the conceptual)?I used to think that the experience of poetry has very little to do with visualization itself, except insofar as it was able to torque and tear space at the limits of the visual archetype, to enact radical spatial torsions, leaps, suspensions, flashes (to become a dense mesh of fucking and proliferating duck-rabbits, bright pores, exploding honey?...). But recently I've started reconsidering the potency of visualization exercises in connection with hypnotic poetry (rhythm, suggestion).... "In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you." ... "The unspeakable visions of the individual.""Blow as deep as you want to blow."(Addressed to his friend Al?....)"bottomless from the bottom"The bottom that dares not speak its name. That stares back through you. L'anus solaire....On the brink of schizoanalysis: "Submissive to everything, open, listening" The disintegration of stable visual form at the limits of [processing-to-fit-a-single -->
-frame], the singularity of liberating radicals, and attention span.
# posted by ombilic des : August 02, 2006

Kerouac's phrases are as sober as a Japanese drawing, a pure line traced by an unsupported hand (for similar image think of Genet's image of the hand of feydeyeen erasing, the hand which erases what was not thereand Eckhardt only the hand which erase can write the true thing _ contrast to spontaneous prose notation _ yes, all sound in Keroauc_ sound which form which make the thing) which passes across ages and reigns. It would take a true alcoholic to attain that degree of sobriety.' of schizo_analysis Dialogues of C.Parnet et Gilles Deleuze_ good to see Mister Poet Coolidge do the good thing for Mister Kerosene  Keroua'

bodies and texts irigaray, barthes et al.

If I go astray, it is not so much because of an ambiguity or an equivocation between the body´s materiality and a more or less aroused consciousness; if I lose the way, it does not happen because of a confusion between subjectivity and objectivity or 'facticity', and not even because there is wavering of identity 
between you and me, between who you are and who I am, but rather because I wonder how to sustain a relationship between us, between two facts of body and language, between two intentions constituting an incarnate relationship which is realized by flesh and words.

~Luce Irigaray, "The Wedding Between the Body and Language" in To Be Two

Return from France.

-->e source of bad writing is the desire to be something more than a man of sense,--the straining to be thought a genius; and it is just the same in speech-making. If men would only say what they have to say in plain terms, how much more eloquent they would be! ... And I can not conclude this Lecture without insisting on the importance of accuracy of style as being near akin to veracity and truthful habits of mind; he who thinks loosely will write loosely, ... Let me also exhort you to careful examination of what you read, if it be worthy any perusal at all; such an examination will be a safeguard from fanaticism, the universal origin of which is in the contemplation of phenomena without investigation into their causes."

The Friend

from Volume I, Essay iv:
... the praises of a true modern reader, when he meets with a work in the true modern taste: videlicet, either in skipping, unconnected, short-winded asthmatic sentences, as easy to be understood as impossible to be remembered ...
It has ever been my opinion, that an excessive solicitude to avoid the use of our first personal pronoun more often has its source in conscious selfishness than in true self-oblivion. ... Yet I can with strictest truth assure my Readers that with a pleasure combined with a sense of weariness I see the nigh approach of that point of my labours, in which I can convey my opinions and the workings of my heart without reminding the Reader obtrusively of myself. ...
For merely to call a person arrogant or most arrogant, can convict no one of the vice except perhaps the accuser. ... Many a man, who has contrived to hide his ruling passion or predominant defect from himself, will betray the same to dispassionate observers, bu his proneness on all occasions to suspect or accuse others of it. ...
As long therefore as I obtrude no unsupported assertions on my Readers; and as long as I state my opinions and the evidence which induced or compelled me to adopt them, with calmness and that diffidence in myself, which is by no means incompatible with a firm belief in the justness of the opinions themselves; while I attack no man's private life from any cause, and detract from no man's honors in his public character, from the truth of his doctrines, or the merits of his compositions, without detailing all my reasons and resting the result solely on the arguments adduced; while I moreover explain fully the motives of duty, which influenced me in resolving to institute such investigation; while I confine all asperity of censure, and all expressions of contempt, to gross violations of truth, honor, and decency, to the base corruptor and the detected slanderer; while I write on no subject, which I have not studied with my best attention, on no subject which my education and acquirements have incompacitated me from properly understanding; and above all while I approve myself, alike in praise and in blame, in close reasoning and in impassioned declamation, a steady FRIEND to the two best and surest friends of all men, TRUTH and HONESTY; I will not fear an accusation of either Presumption or Arrogance from the good and the wise, I shall pity it from the weak, and welcome it from the wicked.

the funniest fellow
Say what you will, you can't keep a dead mind down.

–More Pricks Than Kicks

His plan therefore was not to refuse admission to the idea, but to keep it at bay until his mind was ready to receive it. Then let it in and pulverise it. Obliterate the bastard.

–More Pricks Than Kicks

The funniest writer of the 20 th.century. Break your fat despair in two.

One who writes from some heated heart, halved in two, in four, to let me free a word while reading it. -->

wood s lot _ fitful and more fitting to see the scherzo of its yanking forth


on movement /ranging/other dawn/ of tearing /and shaping/

'A place for tracings, translations, meanderings, notings, explorations, etc. of a mainly writerly nature. Travelogue, too. Open-ended, is the hope.'

his (P. Joris) manifesto_ more a programme a machine working wordin' it over past death kaddishkeep it hot then

'The days of anything static - form, content, state - are over. The past century has shown that anything not involved in continuous transformation hardens and dies. All revolutions have done just that: those that tried to deal with the state as much as those that tried to deal with the state of poetry.
A nomadic poetics is a war machine, always on the move, always changing, morphing,moving through languages, cultures, terrains, times without stopping. Refuelling halts are called poases, they last a night or a day, the time of a poem, & then move on. The sufi poets spoke of mawqif - we will come back to this.
A nomadic poetics needs mindfulness. In & of the drift (dérive) there is no at- home-ness here but only an ever more displaced drifting. The fallacy would be to think of language as at-home-ness while "all else" drifts, because for language to be accurate to the condition of nomadicty, it too has to be drifting, to be "on the way" as Celan puts it. "

As a prose cutting folding thing sweep Up Move on.


as for Jil


 Jill is asking me about meter and what it has to do with illusions of simmer or night no matter/ as for Mona she's a shield wielding banshee ? the boys, unlike the girls , changes their clothes as quick as babies
do their diapers..

If your love is a keepsake knock on my door, and poor as the rainbow we'd find flies to hang on
 planes tipping at the end of teeth, breath making plenty on the soot of the sky.

but would a book like that know the difference captured by her rage the indifferent skies? Hail my forests! and hail my forties fortitude of this type is rate rare coming off  precious going in tender on the way off Exit penurious sign to the beginning

   if man has only a body then
   well then it's a useful fit to the predatory time
of its ankle  ,   its elbow      suffering    ~.

------------------------------------------------------------- .




                       tum- tti-tum- ta

tum- tti-tum- t`a
                                                   ti-tum- tum-tum

dum-tum rm titt
                                       tum-tum titititititiItTiT

                                                                ti-tum- tum-tum

tum ti ti    t m! t mmmmmmmmmmm! tiiitaat um

            ti-tum- tum-tum

dum-tum rm titt
                                               tum-tum titititititiItTiT

dum-tum rm                             


ti-tum- tum-tum

                                                                                dum-tum rm titt

tum-tum tititi                           tititiItTiT

ti-tum- tum-tum

                                                                                                      Ti-tum- tum-tum

dum-tum rm titt
tum-tum titititititiItTiT

dum-tum rm tittitumhmuuuuummmm



thou ght

 i thou ght

  you   were  dead  Lady moth however you 've ou tlasted that moth! thus

                 far an d more  have you  not