taking the brim


   taking the brim / took the broom archives are now public whilst being edited etc




                                                           un café









                                           I was completely ostracized 


Bertrand Russell - Face to Face Interview (BBC, 1959)
Bertrand Russell (1872 -- 1970)  a British philosopher, logician, mathematician, historian, and social critic

there was an 

  a  c  c i           d  e           n                  t



New medias creating new formats, no? yes of curse/as a lover/does/her assonyms!

 OrpHeeCdpoet ‏@orpheecdpoet







i like

  this poem of Carl Sandburg

A Million Young Work Men

A million young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads,
                                         (straight! AND strong ... stiff! i am sure that was not intentional but who knows maybe Sandburg foresaw the future of his words , the future connotations that would be read into them in the years to come/ in any case I like the  million/ its a very whitmanesque opening which itself is rich in significance and connection)

And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red roses.

Yes, this million of young workmen slaughtered one another and never saw their red hands.
And oh, it would have been a great job of killing and a new and beautiful thing under the sun if the million knew why they hacked and tore each other to death.

The kings are grinning, the Kaiser and the czar—they are alive riding in leather-seated motor cars, and they have their women and roses for ease, and they eat fresh-poached eggs for breakfast, new butter on toast, sitting in tall water-tight houses reading the news of war.

I dreamed a million ghosts of the young workmen rose in their shirts all soaked in crimson … and yelled:
God damn the grinning kings, God damn the kaiser and the czar.


 then ~ quantum


Hundred Thousand Billion Poems

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Raymond Queneau’s A Hundred Thousand Billion Poems or One hundred million million poems (original French title: Cent mille milliards de poèmes), published in 1961 (see 1961 in poetry), is a set of ten sonnets. They are printed on card with each line on a separated strip, like a heads-bodies-and-legs book, a type of children's book with which Queneau was familiar. As all ten sonnets have not just the same rhyme scheme but the same rhyme sounds, any lines from a sonnet can be combined with any from the nine others, so that there are 1014 (= 100,000,000,000,000) different poems. It would take some 200,000,000 years to read them all, even reading twenty-four hours a day. When Queneau ran into trouble while writing the poem(s), he solicited the help of mathematician Francois Le Lionnais, and in the process they initiated Oulipo.[1]
Two full translations into English have been published, those by John Crombie and Stanley Chapman. There is also a full translation on the internet by Beverley Charles Rowe that uses the same rhyme sounds.
In 1984 Edition Zweitausendeins in Frankfurt a.M. published a German translation by Ludwig Harig.
In 1997, a French court decision outlawed the publication of the original poem on the Internet, citing the Queneau estate and Gallimard publishing house's exclusive moral right.[2]


External links

______________of which I cite the following:

 "(November 2010 and June 2012) These are the third and fourth main versions of this Queneau site. I was stung into further revision by helpful comments from Jorge Luiz Antonio. He got hold of the original version by mistake and when I directed him to the revised version he said he preferred the original!

I have tried to go back to something more like the look and feel of the original version but have added two new functions.

You can now get new randomly-selected sonnets at a set interval: I describe it as a slide show. When you select that option, the poem is refreshed every two seconds but you can change the interval.

More controversially, I have added two extra poems of my own to the set. Their themes are global warming and fashion. This is, of course, entirely optional and you may include or omit the extra poems at any time.

With the extra sonnets and line shuffling, there are now 261,245,548,225,364,000 possible different sonnets. I think that this is probably more than all the poems that have ever been written by human beings.

And now( I )have redesigned the interface yet again. Let (me) know what you think of it.///"

  and from

  Multitudes  WEb


Je cite

I cite

12 268 millions de poèmes et quelques...

-De l’immoralité des droits moraux
Mise en ligne mai 2001
par  Luce Libera
L’expérience du logiciel libre nous révèle la possibilité et la nécessité de penser autrement les institutions qui régissent la coopération entre cerveaux : invention et coopération sont devenus indissociables. À travers l’exemple de l’interdiction de l’exploitation sur Internet d’un logiciel de composition de poèmes dans la logique des « 268 millions de poèmes » de Raymond Queneau parce que les droits d’auteurs n’étaient pas expirés, Luce Libera critique les droits d’auteur, tels qu’ils ont été pensés depuis la révolution. La gratuité de la connaissance impose une manière différente de penser les critères de répartition de la richesse

« Le geste créateur est un acte producteur qui n’obéit plus à la loi qui sépare les créateurs et les spectateurs. » (Michel de Certeau).
Vous connaissez probablement Cent Mille Milliards de Poèmes, vous connaissez aussi probablement Raymond Queneau. Cet article n’est pas un article sur Queneau et sur son œuvre. J’aurais bien aimé, cependant, en tant qu’économiste, je ne suis habilitée qu’à parler de la fabrique. Et pourquoi pas, justement, ...de la fabrique de poèmes.




re------------------: last count ..

you wrote                      ConcErnIng: last count ..

 -------------------------------------now after I check'd my figures/ I found this

sOMeOne or Other  or robot?

which speculates on a much grander scale/o ver time and across languages ___! asks this question:
How many poems have been written in the world?

s   ' I found on the internet that 5.000.000 poems are published on the web each year worldwide (source: wikipedia); let's suppose they are only 0,1% of the poems written per year: it gives 5 bilions poems per year; if now we multiply this result for the number of years since writing began (7000, to be conservative) we obtain approximately 35 trillions of poems; but I believe the real numbers are far greater, in the order of 10^15, in other words nearly 5 thousand trillions in short scale... I'm waiting for better guesses :)'

-------------------------------------------- http://wiki.answers.com/Q/How_many_poems_have_been_written_in_the_world

   ----------------an dis



which article 'licited

 a bevy o

Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!Text... or snow?!

last count ..

last count there was nearly 500,000, 000 million poems of one sort or another ontheWeb

         in english
 dig that

__________________________ Poems in whatever form shape or

             poems without judgement as to good bad or /and indifferent

 that's including verses, parts, wholes, stanzas, complete books, classics of english literatures world wide

Now that is Somethingggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg


Burgess , Anthony

Burgess was neither C, B or A as a novelist.

  I'd venture a better categorization: He was A and B and C, and in addition to that accolade as anovelist

there's  A for his reviews and books about Joyce and ahalf dozen other writers,  (Urgent Copy )

does it seize your hair  your body your night dogs letting go the right 
  becoming  a gorilla a sheer nightmare of painful realizations?




  ~Daughters Boticelli detail Sistine Chapel------------


why do people mow their lawns   ~ I Say let'em gorse, bush, brush, grow wild vineyard vane
   but then i don't own one  of these things

                                      but do you want to ?
 a gabled house

  leaning in toward the perspective of the sea

               with the notorious author living nearby

   crashing waves   on  the seaside

   hurricanes and other shit coming in from the west

to say

to say


it stared as lawns
but you dont belong (rhyme )   (rhyme)


  That    .....  bitch   (really ) had my balls
                         in a  blister


 more later


 are you charming naked  buttocks?


some one else says a scroll is past tense /i mean time past past  going pas t tense /eyes

   all the ones (that ) believe 'oral' poetry is the thing   wrong  rong r'ong ! hahah its so funny... the perfectly   evident fact is that
                               the aural is legit/ as combined with the rest

_____________________ Anyhow, no matter 90 percent  of what's written is read by the person with their eyes especially in the internet.

untitled and

the untitled poem ..  i was tempted to write pome, but i think that, at least in my mind, i see that jj book every time i do and it doesn't look real it looks real when he does it, i mean, he did it, right ,it's almost a 100 years ago Anyhow he did it, and maybe cummings and a few others, bisset?

 but anyhow, i cant it odd it dont look real pomes versus poems  I mean its not much its a displace ment of O and E and the absence of E

_______________ eat /   be alive

 do laundry/


  her face was as beautiful and strange as  a picasso and a modigliania molded

she saw sideways

her hands were sensual her lips fluttered full

 they were not  /they were something you can't find a word for

   oh butterflies they were butterflies they (seem'd) to flutter
   right off her 


you won't hold with giving a shit
  giving  afuck
  this day or night as its witches its pulse

telling this one and that one what's good and not
we know enemies  come from friends

 and the imperial ones
   the non trusters
  keep your distance

at its well worked thought
   this is   oil pouring rain  on fire

      --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Jethroe's --------------------------



you won't hold with giving a shit
  giving  afuck
  this day or night as its witches its pulse

telling this one and that one what's good and not
we know enemies  come from friends

 and the imperial ones
   the non trusters
  keep your distance

at its well worked thought
   this is   oil pouring rain  on fire




Oh my god!” John Berryman complained in October 1952, “Shakespeare. That multiform & encyclopedic bastard.”

Never feel that way after reading Shakespeare, but always feel larger and that I understand more, just as when I read Pound I become  a better writer.   after reading finnegans wake,  i go
  read french, say Rimbaud, I under stand more. writers of that caliber teach us to
better writers and readers/
                        better in the sense that we're less sick with our illseeing illhearing illusions.

| Compare Joyce in his whole life Ulysses                                   ~__________________ (who creates anxiety is critics or other 'paranoid' readers) (theres none till you met them ) (or the 'bad' poets' (meaning the sick ones giving orders) giving orders (ordures shit) giving order-words

-----------------------  in the meantime I've gone to back to working on the big long poem  ~ the one I was speaking to Patrick about today. he called from Victoria this was just after I returned from Ireland

I never put it online as they say   ~

        offline to the online that's terse as a bucket
            in  a munchful of rain
                 that's lunch with
   someone else's elbow
              below  ~



 _________________ha v t  '

________________n one is getting old _________________________________________________________________

will the night speak long arms hold their way
(and) the sudden reoccurrence but the rest is forgotten gone foregone
these little moment
the park
mist lights
air to wine

and the care speaks suddenly a recurrent
word and the red leaves is that it? does it hurry night
happening let's stop and see what happens (that makes six)
budding leaves would marry others





tomorrow commodity and wealth

                   prosperity Porcupine Prospero's hovering his mist
  keep fist the rough tune /found on the awl/ members this greek column in
           orney hours past rising blue

today money and commodity and hep to the length of these breeze you call your smile


 ah honor as its witch to please the pleasant smile  ~

  assured by the spring's well 


 flaw morsel

====================================== flayed Marsyas

========================= there are no 'flaws' in this  poem, but rather  flows which break ;examples abound ~the Apostrophe opening, the declaiming archaisms   the weirder beat of 'contemporary ' jagged juxtaposed rhythms against   the squiring and hush of the rhymes. and do they represent anything? no t so, they are the something the ones that move his machine,  hope,  dream, his fancy. The 'flaws' are break/flows/ /schizz/lines. as his vocabulary, or diction if you want, strives to a other level than the apparent one, the rhetoric of the poem.

yr able to hear before what you could only read and reading doesnt permit the
bagayer the stammer/stut/tutututer of what's happening
  in Crane's lingo train

'Lorsque la langue est si tendue qu’elle se met à bégayer, ou à murmurer, balbutier…, tout le langage atteint à la limite qui en dessine le dehors et se confronte au silence. Quand la langue est ainsi tendue, le langage subit une pression qui le rend au silence. Le style – 'la langue étrangère dans la langue'

i hear the poetry of the Bridge in this statement
So that is part of what you're discussing

He gets right out and under from 
the signifier danger

(think of the image of the bridge itself going the other way Not Under But Over Water of the Flow that's the River _ he carries with him, with its infinite (receptacle) of objects, detritus, an so on) (i am breath to catch it as it pauses (my own thought and his)  'Damp tonnage and alluvial march of days-
Nights turbid, vascular with silted shale
                                                And roots surrendered down of moraine clays;
                                                    The Mississippi drinks the farthest dale.'

i mean eve/n his strange archaisms  the thees and thous
    are sung not read or even heard
 but are the busted gaps , vacuoles in his language

    as he struggles up and against the collective alcoholism  of his milieu (his own an theirs),  his isolation.
             his homosexuality            (everyone needs to 'know' what he is doing he must explain,
                   justify, pay rent, get loot to write)  (the bridge as a project is considered weird
expectations are high in a letter he compares himself to Virgil_O folly of comparison_ the analogy
is false it's a ruse necessary to cover up the terrible reality at hand :Explanation and
its horrid partner Necessity)

 his rhymes are strange too tending to a conventional appEaRance 
  but are in fact, they are parented by the desolation and terrible doubling they carry
  the rhymes are hurts to Ear which speak to the heart 

as for instance when he crosses with the hobos and others

  in  the River  section

    following the train riders 
                                                Yet they touch something like a key perhaps.
                                                  From pole to pole across the hills, the states
                                                __They know a body under the wide rain;
                                                Youngsters with like fjords, old reprobates
                                                 With racetrack jargon, __dotting immensity
                                                  They lurk across her, knowing her yonder breast'

what's happening  there? It's as if Crane yodels the nostalgic longing and pain of others in their quest into American landscape a time of hunger and desperados,, the great belly of the continent speeding across the rails of their minds   ___'And past the circuit of the lamp's thin flame'___it works    naturally its' beautiful even as in other sections the verbs escape into a sort of passive junction of breath against syntax

Under the Ozarks, domed by Iron Mountain,
the old gods of the rain lie wrapped in pools
Where eyeless fish curvet  a sunken fountain
And re-descend from querulous crows.'

His engines huff

but he don't remain with the malaise,
                  he moves on

                      ' And Pullman breakfasters glide glistening steel
                        From tunnel into field__iron strides the dew     
                        Straddles the hill, a dance of wheel on wheel.'

I'll come back to this more/. I love writing about Crane, drifting with his wood and have been , and have could and the left and right of song,  switching from city and town and back again river, subway and rush of traffic scramble of voices    and 


                                                           Cape Hatteras

which starts with quote from Whitman

                                                                                   The seas all crossed,
                                                      weathered the capes, the voyage done
                                                                                                           (Walt Whitman)

then starting with the astonishing image


      '    Imponderable the dinosaur
                                    sinks slow,
                                        the mammoth saurian
                                               ghoul, the eastern 
                                                                 Cape ...

Combustion at the astral core__the dorsal change
Of energy ___convulsive shift of sand  ...'

  The image of the dinosaur is more terrifying and imponderable itself .    He 's chopping hes way through the memory of the earth and the passage of chronos / Crane's splitting the page and the thought in two. What's so weird about that if you think it's what's actually happening. Does that make he's an imitator? Not at all it does mean he was a man  who absorbed his time and walked with the history of America and the world rattling in his bones.    Thus there is a speaking self there that runs under the self of Crane the person the man one can know from his biographers  the one who had relations with living and real people of his time. This other Crane is proceeds and narrates from a different place, the place of the oracle of the poet himself, or even itself; he is the one who descends    ________he is the descender  downshifting into the remembrance of earth itself and Man?

                                        'Man  hears himself an engine in a cloud!

                   '"__Recorders ages hence"_ah, syllables of faith!
                   Walt , tell me, Walt Whitman, if infinity
                   Be still the same as when you walked the beach
                    Near Paumnanok__'


  Crane jumped to his death by drowning at sea.   He kills necessity in that action  . He beats out the cruel fates of necessity and explanation and becomes the song that's sung ,the very crash of the ocean  itself

'I wanted you, nameless Woman of the South'
                                                                             the sea    ~.

  It's how we read the man not how he wrote himself that teaches us about him and his work .  Take his work and make it richer by bringing it or finding the level of possibilities it was written at take it to its maximum worth not its negative declension.

We don't know what Crane 's voice sounds like nor how he 'd have read but surely were he alive now he'd be having fun with it  on the one hand, a nd pushing it further against its necessities .