death letter blues




Question no 2

Anna ~ when did you write the first poem or ode ! as you so charmingly called them once    ~ 

C.Duffy    ~   hmm let's see when I was four?

  that'd make a good getogether metaphor wouldn' it .. I heard about Joyce , no, I mean 
    Rabelais when I was nine, I think, I saw the fat, character Pantagruel! in a book! 
              the kid giant!

  and all the Big Zany AtmoSpheric  words about food and galleons of wine
                         and Massive Cuts of Meat and so on

  Anna:  You mean Gargantua  not Pantagruel

C. Duffy:___________Yep! that's   no maybe not, I mean I was a kid it could have been either... right, you dig?

-----------------------  Anna : he was a  doctor too you know, a scholar .... he hummed with knowledge.

C.Duffy _ A  lot of writers then were Masters and Doctors....

                                        | In my medicine cabinet I found you
                                        | and not  a     few     

                                        |                                                            |


that idea



or and of there and now and


standing between the virtual/the printed/the written and spoken/that's the life of a poet these day/s

                                    over the Atlantic again

 interviewed with a  a friend

Tell us about that idea for  a groupblog notion? did it work previously?

O yes! it did ... that was ages   back!     hey do you see that formation of clouds yonder.. it's the edge of easternwest of Greenland! which means in another  what is it? 2 hours we'll be over Ireland..  my heart skips a beat when I see that and my soul drowns in moon gusts and leaps for hope when once we're on the ground walking that place... what virtual space of containment compares to that?
You mean Iceland over there? yr blind! duffy! take the patch off
 Poets you see or would be artists and poet types are quite lazy and if you give them something,
           too easy they hold it in contempt!
                              (on the way we'll sail ) 
                                                           (the unbright blue C)
 they want to be rejected and submitted!

   hahah I ran a mag for a time, secretly under an other name, or really two and then were dozens of submissions from the known, unknown and the re-known again!

      people like to be recognized nothing less will do......

  However, when I think of the countryside and water around this part of the globe, I mean, it's not country at all, its water,

Water country cold as ice and worse

   what matter all this nonsense of publish/not publish  

   the artists have to realize they are best to become their very own producers.. conducers and extravagant
               c                   r          e a         t        o                      r                                   s!

lets go swimming when we get to Shannon!


And Clifford begat ...


And Clifford begat ...



R___ry: Re: 'this note


but does that mean you really were in San Diego?

            yes, it does.

Rere Re: 'this note




Miss and Mr Jocasta were having problems with the tracery, a stone, the rock, a bare tarnished bush, the black box glowing and as with any blind thing, for instance, the notion of faith, they'd been accustomed to the problem and the secret salve hidden from onlookers. I don't mean will-power, because that's just voluntarism disguised, or pretence built up as rock defiance.There are no such illusions at this juncture. It was a sea wave trying to fly in from the spreadeagled sound of air, the pier whence we sauntered. The end of a wharf .Withal it was tender. She was hip swathing close. It was near to midnight. Blue dark night, the kind that always comes once or twice at this time of the season. A hard night reckoning and a bold bowl of soup, and rice, and cabbage. Ah, there's no love like the lost one. Or would that be the last one? And shouted shells from hackneyed calves. The word escaped me, not escapade. A farandola of pretence to the recent vocable stew, a squall of gulfs, parade. It's hot cold hot cold cold hot cold hot hot cold. Cold. Like a snow beating against the receptacle. A precept for any encouraging lace-on. Is that a period. Take the sap, take the cap, the space between two margins, left right. Left right. Right left, cadets march, left right left right left right. You there, Lance Corporal Duffy (you think this is the French Foreign Legion?), right left right left right left (epaulettes and shoulder braids) left right (taps and warnings) left left now you got that toe working even though they busted your ass. Not Jocasta and her eyes. Nor your mother's . Nor your I. Sometimes an artist just has to bust through. Kick the ass out of the machine, kick ass bad ass honey. Yes, it's not dancing, it's called adapting that machinething the way you want it to. A word is wanton at the grave of a funeral . Parlor. A lover is a dog. Nor a bog plated to come tune.

Explain this;           well it's ,  okay, here it's , okay, well with love of that intensity it's as if my body parts
 and hers, were stuck inside each other  ,

permanently  ,    when I died,   and came back to find she'd gone,

I had to search ,            and   thus it's been      searching searching baby
                                  flashlight searching

Okay shellfish. I was telling the story of Jason and the one eyed gue. That's from Book 1 of the Illiad. And

Awesome Oedipus and Jocasta (don't you cast the first stone) and her other Eye.

They were torn out , with those things, like jackknifes but worse. Rammed straight through her eye sockets. Or balls. Hanging threads. Closed closets where they had fornicated or fucked or copulated Mother Son.

And Jason tore one eye (his left) out after reading the Bibble. The Bible you mean. Michael asked, are you? I said, yeah , I was serious. He shouts to me Jason tore  his eye out!

Fuck man, are you serious? Yes. He did, he was crazy, went nuts, reading that passage if your right eye offend you pluck it out. Jesus Christ, the dead god told him that ? I don't think so. But Jocasta had to bury her son. I mean Mary had to . Bury him after he was anointed for , and having done the ablutions so to speak, they put his body away.

You know Jason was the kind of guy he'd look at you, real intense. You'd have to turn away.

And Jocasta's son Oedipus ran off away. To the desert.

Someone knocked at the door. The type-font trembled hearing things at the portcullis. You mean the type-face right? Right I mean the right side of her face was blood. Mashed gruel.

 I am in Morocco. It is 1976.


Re: 'this note


Re: 'this note

_________________ I wrote this note on the plane to San Diego__________'_______________

is fiction ~ or more precisely it's an epistemic poetic fiction    ~


'that note and


A puttogether is what it is ~ and that's what I am
a puttogetherist ~


'A million

A million words and more but who gives a damn except you and a shuffle of a handful

You are desperate to love| life but they won't let her she's a hurtled a
Theres's my poem of the day.
Print it it might make a fortune for libraries one day!

               kISS THE moon  K,
                she's short and long winded.
A blessed thing stuck between her ears, and wired
by iambic pentameter.


'this note


i live in  a store called poetry

          you might accidently write it's a strong house
              that i live in  a strongbox
              called poetry

 it's very expensive/ the price to get in there is high

  extremely so/ more than you can picture
or possibly imagine in your freshest 'wild' dream that's a consumer product of giving a little in the recorded consumption of your death

one mustn't be afraid of imaginary books or of living in the present 

           if she's married walk to the door take her voice out with you
                 leaving the present of her breath aside
    as a  cape that's been twisted by a p-icador twirling an shantying away from the redscarved bull
   charging at the slightest delay
                  like an orange heat

                     not a placid leak or Joanne G's   
                      remaining away
   the married one and her nasally voice gets out of her present presenting the gold of her tights and her thighs wearied and weighed from three kids mostly adult now, she's been a married woman for more than  a week

s he leaves the husband clinging to you,  to m e  ,  as to a fortune

                   cleaving to her lover

_________________ I wrote this note on the plane to San Diego_________________________


the breath of a poem is the breath of the spirit

  and was that a night? kept the cold key on   ~ the blue of devasation / and the cold/ the permanent frame of death 
   a rush of wind 
              down the longing lane
your aBverbs
 and nighttime fish
  only the eyes ear
 the ear sees
a long penetrating glance the sullen thief of  (the) night who was riding his clompy boots
So this, and other matters have been how I have been. A poet does not live by commas and grammatical overtures but by the breath of  a word  keeps giving. Breaking continually of the last practice; a permanent spark of change and movement.

 ______ cherished beside each Hi