the limits of ideas like camille  paglia's   (like her mentor Bloom and others of that ilk) is she doesn't take them far enough.   which is usually the case    with idea snatchers . a bit here and a bit there but they don't run far enough with them and in her case what appears to be literary criticism __ whatever that is __ turns out to be an idea of history based on the mythology idea, the imposing idea of Apollonian versus Dionysus man versus woman/nature.

i started reading her ages ago but forgot about but because i am concerned with poems and she writes about poems sometimes i decided to read her book Personae (....l) .

 but it's not really a book at all. its a yelling | a  loud  session |  the negative in full swing| but its good| but does not go far enough that's the problem   in my opinion with having a teacher, or mentor, or whatnot whose own views are limited by the horizon of the negative i.e. Bloom, and others. It's not so much that they are wrong, they are often not wrong in specifics, but the

view they espouse is ultimately the horizon of the negative

 and she says this in bold black and white . man is a fearful being fearing castration by the woman and as soon as reading that

I thought she's just dead wrong

shes on the back track

shes a priestess of the negative

    this is not true and its not where its at . its the whole negative freudian thing

-------------------------- more anon.


( looks like i am losing a tooth next week!) (shit a tooth a crown dating back a decade but no longer crownable? hahahah     a crown to get the boot?! ache, it aches me some)


re adverb draft_ MOre


Ok, then what is a verb?

Re: adverb draft

No one knows what a verb is. A verb aint a noun, it aint a crown, its not ground or being, but is it becoming , is it passive or engaged negative, positive first case,  upper case lower case capital I and You.

 Who is the verb? some say its this some say its that.

   and that is that.its not fat and a cat.

i walked on the beach today picking up crap

   is that a verb it got hot i hadnt eaten is that a verb

tomorrow they're protesting the imperial rise of surveillance in the surveillance state of the society of everyone watching everyone

    is this a verb that sentence contruscted of hungry thoughts? toast/
                                                (what a lovely typo!)        

 toast, tea, me, thee, a wee sounding on the sea,
   the boats, beach, memory of John and
     memory and the water
   they say we    in that book Paglia claims cultured life's a struggle agains the chthonian  (a horrible word which is complely nuts to pronunce so screw it!) force of nature
   i read her impelling sentences , really not sentences but demands __ almost commands

     tacking their high speed in her book,

telling me this and these things
  but as I cam e home last

   night and i am saying yes yes yes to this pithy truth  or that   partial one

as theyre all partial

  but as I am walking down 'some dark street'

    and the jungle life-atmosphere of being lost for a moment rouses that old      ,.... in my breast

 I do look up
   I halt I look up

    that vaulting late night sky

           one star,,  two planets, another star, then another and another and , look, over there,

peeping up,  peering out,  & beside & beside
    & behind, around,
 working there,  grinding here,

pushing a whole sky a universe of star and strung space

between the heaping skies of what word for it between those cosmoses

  and the earth is small its chthonian  (that horrible word again) force mostly gravity really

   and this is not bad or good, or bad or god,
call it immanence , transcendence
___________________________________ what she does is split it all| down the mid|dle!
                                                                                                             ch op               ch  op|

  there's no duality and there is
its both of  the same shop

two stop overs at the same station

right some like that

   & more

______________________  but its the struggle between her static notion of history that's off and one can say wrong, if not wrongheaded.
  but she's close to being on to what's what  at least to some extent but . when she starts talking decadence well then the bottom falls through.

what decadence ? what does she mean/ she never says as she does not know. she mixes an idea of decadence with an other notion of late capitalism

as if she'd mixed Jameson's ideas  with Bloom's notion of the evening stage of western literary expression. the latter is a complete melancholic projection of the man's own pyschology and where Fredric Jamesson ends we begin.





 Started two new poems last night

 he's got a box


my little words



adverb draft


                            what is an adverb?
                      it is a funny 'object'
                                     strangely shaped
                               formed and unformed in  time's 'burb'
                                       its urge to modify & classify

                                                        the tender telling of time's
                                                             tourniquet its barbershop twisting
                                                      candy-cane pole to a single reconnoitring before dawn's
                                                     ship crowds the bay of nouns
                                                     the mighty verb high sailing steamer
                                                               the smoke stacked ocean liners
                                             packing the harbour of funnels, chimneys, masts, and sails 

                                                                 the water pushes back the land
                                                                         rolling off the surf its benign touch



what is an adverb?


 what is an adverb?

 it is a funny object

   strangely shaped
   formed and reformed by time's 'burb'

   its urge to modify & classify

   the tender telling of time's

                        tourniquet its barbershop twisting
   candy-cane to a single reconnoitring before dawn's
ship crowds the bay with nouns

  and the mighty verb high sailing steamers
        filling up the bay with their funnels? chimneys, masts, and sails


i was ...


I was not beautiful where I lay... running around in my head, that line, which as it turns out, does not exist, not previously that is to me saying  it

                                         But it puts me in mind of , or reminded me or echoed   ,   rhythm wise  ,

   the one Stephen Dedalus wrote (in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man)

about being weary of where he lay

   and the 'fallen seraphim'

 it's odd, amazing, fascinating, how the echo of a line, one's not read in years, and even decades, might crop up like

 'taking the mickey ' out of one, as it were,   and there it is, echoing in the heart mind or mind heart or rhythm
   and it's connected to how he felt, how he felt about his looks, not being 'beautiful, ' as if one ever were, or had to be , bu t in a world of conjunctions

one's sometimes,   forced as it were to conceive oneself this way, and    'they say' men don't do that, i mean think  of themselves in terms of beauty

 and not beauty

  he was not beautiful where he lay    he lay in the hard stone of the pavement like the young woman yesterday outside of the day before outside of the

metro in Verdun

  and O how she smiled when he gave her some money, for her collection, sitting there she was ,

no more than, say, twenty two? and she was weary, he could see, wary  and weary where she lay,
but her spirit tipped up

  and she smiled too, when she saw the amount , surprised saying Merci, and Thank you her spirit lifted up and he 'good luck'    and on the way he wondered how she'd come to such a pass as to be sitting on her butt, on her ass, sitting on her ass  , outside of the metro station, the young woman
  that in spite of any of that, she rose up,  and smiled thank you  and her spirit would carry her then, two hours

he didn't know about that nor about beauty
                                        with the exception of believing he was not beautiful.

and someone told him that word does not belong to you. you can't use that word. what are you? what's the matter with you, anyhow?

 He tottered on the blank sheet of paper holding his head, high jinks to the high heaven.





re_________ring ~


needs more needs more needs more needs more needsmoreneedsmoreneedsmore

Re_________ring ~

                                needs more needs more needs more needs more needsmoreneedsmoreneedsmore  

                                                                                    needs more needs more needs more needs more needsmoreneedsmoreneedsmore 

needs more needs more needs more needs more needsmoreneedsmoreneedsmore  

                                                                                    needs more needs more needs more needs more needsmoreneedsmoreneedsmore


status ~to


sun and moon change cloud
  eye and ear
   change    metamorphose the 
            body changes
     soul grows
    stays same


_________ring ~


_______________________ Needs more work   (reads too   weak   )

language and bodies    ~  _________________________________

                         body and language _________________arms, wreaths ,,  roses,, kisses


                          the sweep of wave and arms entwine   ~.

                                  a possible possible



in bowling


'we're talking about form and the shape of (content) or life not the complete in between f spirit and love or the horizon of the working   beings  but them outside is where my machine lives.'

Mona Jill and Franny are Bowdlerized!


(reviews )


~~ Ahm 2 DifferEnt Song





Ahm runnin aroun' in thee snowy naked. C u earliIsh lAtER

----------------------------------------------------------- Print please? Please print?   keep yr nose flat and yr screen hide  as which to see/like see width?

breadth and heigth


_________________ what you see is not what you get

 what you see








               (revision machine) 


in and then ~


in the man was a body
   the body was

forgot word

gotten  bone

was your mouth
a trying song?

held by the dogs of night
not light's 

fair feather

and the coming




 the hell-bent destroyers
of human history


(revised text)



. thinking  inking
   blood link

      in the head
  it's his
  around the nave
     it's his

  what church is this?
    is this the atheist rite of passage

    calibrated  to the end of the world



he's thinking


 he's thinking  about her                 ( hour  &  night)  all of the time 
  a breath to take            
           think   how  how 


Re: things

                                'poetry is between things '______________________

Re: things____________________________________________

  where is this supposed between things?

He's working  between the things the buttons of her sheet. She's wondered what became of _ he's at the sphinx end of

things? what's between is how a head falls breaking its heart over the shoulder of an empty head,a broken doll, bitterness , condemneed, the gold god , cramming , the 

 not that's not it's the grey sky , better, between thing, circumstance, invention, imagination, ------------





    poetry   _____ works ______between things ____________


my little words _

my little words flew to her 
  and she flies to me
   i will fly to her in her
 a round her airs and sounds


Yesterday .. .


   He suffered  ... he couldn't find his body. No one found it. the day before a brief glimpse ... a touch in passing .. then he remembers what loss is.

  Loss is what was and no more. No more is of was? was is was. his was . he was there but not a stranger in passing this glass of glimpse into the rare form of self.

She was suffering his suffering  glancing at him in the mirror of her sunglasses. No one's touched him in, as they say, a long time. Too long to remember . But the pain of its absence is a memory to behold. suffering the what was not. Nor isn't and the how to in the loss of the mouth  in the moment  of its present.

He walked. turned the corner. boarded the bus. crowded dogs swarming on him he's gone a death blow to the sudden subject and no more. but the existence that justifies itself at the edge of the economy.

 O that economy. That book.   Yes, in the summer of their advent. No troubles tear them apart limb from limb worse than the troubles of their summer . that's no more. ruled by rules of the talking grammar of the god assent to the language powers that be . determining his self.

 what breaths in this hour but suffering loneliness, debt, so long, a word, debut.

how to announce oneself when dying . and the stranger coming going, going and coming, its recompense spent. Freed from this double summer spent? a hoarse voice whispering in the gallery. a smashing bird's next. torment for the one who's heard of all too much.

He's lost there. He was alone. Walking. the bus. then missed it, gets on the back, changing seats she's clustered his walking on with his hate.

 Loneliness, which almost has the word lioness in it, is the dog that's torn the river. which was not a river, but the rapids of the back-spent pages.

A man dying of his worried worth? let's have no self pity here, no one's applauding least of all his friends.

 He was brooding. No never brooding but it wondered at him this hour.

He was there, in the city, it's dark tent cloy on him.

A dog down by night.

 He was the river extraordinaire suffered by the waves of its algae its laughter. One's not so easy to finish as this.
   As the eyes can't see what heaven knows?  we'll come back to this. in the days that come. overbearing like a rune in the sky.



re: the fr


 of this

Re: the fr...

you were the retarded one

  the night   the day pushed by the kettle

  tardy as behind that which loved you

 which you wanted to love

as the person was she


is that the night

 its continuity used to be a brazen weed in a song



   Chrome   browser is trying to convince me it's a better in terms of speed etc. but as an artistic 'object'

the blogs that I do look better , in my view, on firefox.

it's an ongoing question.



found transNaLtion of tzara's________________________________ misspelling leads to freaks of learning & findings one did not see previous as the seeing to the text of a poem is infinite

_________________ an older text|blog


this computer is too slow to enrich this posting_______________________________________

 found transNaLtion of tzara's

Cinema Calendar Of The Abstract Heart - 09

the fibres give in to your starry warmth
a lamp is called green and sees
carefully stepping into a season of fever
the wind has swept the rivers' magic
and i've perforated the nerve
by the clear frozen lake
has snapped the sabre
but the dance round terrace tables
shuts in the shock of the marble shudder
new sober


be interesting to do a comparative study between these first book poems of
Tzara against some of the weaker poets doing attempted, and i say attempted advisedely,
imitation of this style which Tzara invented, at least from the surrounding rhizomes. trouble with some of the imitators is they dont they are doing so

Should also point out that Tzara never punctuated any of his poems _ his prose poems yes, but not the others....
a strength which appears feared in the english language which we can deterritorialize enuff



the fr...


   i have the french of a  retard .. an ocean block[s] the view. a brain ham. a lonesome hog. a
  . what's that wind. a clacking at the gate. who's that cringing? cringe is a phony word. phony is  aphony word.a  word is a phony a word s a phoneme a  sound at the centre that is not centre that is me the self spun on the world axis . not another word. find self to outward gland. a bearing south in the wind. the book writing. no one's there.

hear. hear? hear that deafness in the dong dong of the night . of the night. of the night

  of the night               of the night

  'what was once wild land'            almost hit the road      .

     what does it mean to say 'i have the french of a retard' what does the root word tard hearken to? a lateness a delay not arriving at the same speed as the others as 'everyone'    as 'anyone'    

 it's about being on time  / about being able to speak on time   in time the time of understanding that others and even oneself understands    gets  across as we  say

  so its about time and if your time is late e ither from speaking or thinking too fast  and too slow

too behind the others 

  then you are retarded you are behind the others

 mon francais est retardee

  it's quite amusing when you think about it as  I was alive in the 16th century wandering through france
   a poet in my grime a prisoner perhaps as thousands of others but france was open if royal it was a free country
     lines of crazy escape were everywhere....
         what happened ?                                     -___ maybe I was killed in a sword fight i cant remember or struck down in the street by  being in the wrong place  or the night

was dark and i could not see
  and something was choking me  smothing me

  and i was dirty
     my face was dirty

     i was dying




   i needed to step back/   catch my breath/   get  a view on things  ___
   to understand what was happening /

  it's not failure / no one's failed   

  perhaps this is, having done this, stepped back, is where the real lines of creative ... enounter  between   us   lie.. between     ____________ and myself  ___.

                                      _______________________________ it's a strange old world without her                                                                     even for seven days  ________________

so who are we? what vowel of night and glimmer?
 who were we? without making a  mystique of it  
  but to see the vivid it is 







|   Friday  |

 it's been almost a week.  tomorrow it will be a week. since. last i saw  _ i mean spoke to ___ it's been

                                   near to seven days    ____________ what does seven days mean? seven's one of those symbolic numbers __ seven days of creation _s even years molecules change  _____

                                                   seven rhymes/with





today is thursday yesterday was we(n)dsay (always said wendsday dont we). today .

   each day  .       perhaps where the    period          ought  to  be placed is before   &   after

  l             i             k             e                            e                                y                   e                     s  

    .                                                                                                                                             .


Re: Monsieur Lundi:Notes


                      speaking of phone calls not sure who i was the 'other night' 

                                                           how displaced i felt   (that's putting it  mildly )    (the hour  of a globe turning two people upside down when they ought to be 'right side up' or at least some other side  up/down/sideways or backwards/ eye to eye/ lip tongue to lip (kiss) face to face/ hip to /hip  )

  explaining oneself/how 

does one do that?

   in such a context

 that's what gave birth to the idea of a play _ the comedy! the relief of it!  (there was laughter)

(and fonts on blogs are weird  

  never quite coming over as i'd like

 but then poetry is a perpetual creation

a  forcing of matter

 'forcing the matter'

  a forcing of matter to shape it such a way that the potter's clay glows in the night

  grows in the night





if the worl...d....


 if the world weren't poor 

 what    ? door?  is  it a poem opening/ closing
   out of necessity one writes

Monsieur Lundi:Notes


Mister Monday was Monsieur Lundi how  a language can hate you your bones body brittle on the terrible plight the violence of the bus  / the  forgetful of the hour

                                      _________________a  poem reaching its hand across 

                       cross the narrow sea a gage twines grapes on the trellis
                                 a character crosses the stage:

(a possible sketch?)

Act 1 ____________________ two people not having met (in the flesh)
      (i hate this term refuse to use it)
    'meet'    on a 'social media'  then proceed to  the phone?
(none of this has to do with high speed or dial-up connections/ people are the same in either instance)

     how do the two meet as such and interact? what comedy of errors and 'tragedy' of loss might occur or do in fact occur  . Especially note as the two can't see one another .

 (this sounded funnier the other night  'on the phone' . is it any wonder? )


tues day

__________________________ every thing i write is  non fiction
                                                                               ev erything thing i do is non fiction
everything on the contrary is i write is fiction

            fiction is everything it's an adventure if it's so  if not it's non fiction and its what?

a   lot of house and mirrors?


  tues . was a painful day  . in every sense. hauling books, missing buses, hating  being angry / crying
 tears (tarts the word's in there somewhere) scald the skin got/off the bus/ was going nuts/ walked /waited/ was 'angry'
   and the legs sore
               the shoe don't fit
 as it did last week

                       and  loneliness pierces worse than a dagger
                               the prison the convalescence of the prisoner goes on forever

 walking along the river was hateful wind cold and light was  slipping away
  and some imagined lunatic on the bus not letting me see

or so i thought

 a s i m so full of my self

it became all self reproach


  what bus is this that waits keeps us waiting

  what life's this? but then again think of those others under the skies of planes which bomb
      their cities ruined destroyed   'on the world tv screen' and the rulers that be
 their endless war on others who always appear to be helpless   .


  but then I went to a meeting got better spoke a bit got some things off of my chest
    going there always helps whether i m happy or in another state and I was glad
to see the new chap there the one i'd seen before working witha  newer person
always helps getting oneself out of oneself

 so we walked and chatted some and i'll probably see him tomorrow and do another meeting

 and that freed me to think of other things   having gotten out of myself for a time

less self and more other

  (someone i knew was speaking and i'd like the talk )


  reaading Olsen's poetry infuriates me
     some thing self indulgent about it  in the worst way i've never quite gotten him
perhaps i'm prejudiced by having heard him first i mean seen him first and some  measure of self pity there as it were as he's moaning and groaning and the Man was a Giant I
think he was 6feet 7 inches
 and massive towering yet the
moan  in the words he uttered

i've never quite gotten him
but then im not american

 (he meant a lot to american poetry in the 50s )
     (canada's poetry problems are not identical and perhaps we are more self identified in the world as the trajetory of english the english tongue through the commonwealth carries another resonance or another distinction  (a becoming? an overturning of nationalist values as such )  and 'english' canada
s agon with french  (&vice versa) is something americans have not had to deal with )

   but then i didnt live when he did
i dug Pound   but never quite got what the others purportely following him did

 i've never quite gotten Robert Duncan or any of those guys Spicer, the drunk
drinking himself to death   ... what kind of aesthetics is that  or what sort of poetics is that?

and Robert Duncan i was never much into his work as such his poetry .. his ideas on the other hand were interesting but even there i've never really followed them  in any serious enough way...
and Frank O Hara he whose work I used to like so much I read him rarely if at all...

  and the same with ashberry i never got much of out his work... 
i heard him reading as they call it a  few years back
and it was like watching a corpse ....


it's a strange business this writing business . this poetry life.  but there are! dozens! i like!

so what hey ho! let them be!  
                           grace to them!


Lundi ~ thought


 get out this place   this country   move around the world  someplace else end the memories here which never end / this city's one of memories it wraps itself thus /canada
quebec/ family/life
death histor

old neighborhoods
who gives a damn


mother's day _ Universal Oedipus

-- Karen, who i found out died  last November  ) told me once  i wish i'd brought you up _ she wanted me in effect? to be her son _  i told another woman about this the following autumn, she's from toronto but her name escapes me, and her reaction was  ~  it's a beautiful thing to say a beautiful thing she said, if i recall

the words she used

karen golden died last november after taking a bad fall and after being on life support for about 48

she gave up the ghost or  the machine gave up the ghost

-- ghost -- saw what I took to be her for a second yesterday through a store window. what is a ghost? a desire to see someone we loved once, a wish?

___ to be elsewhere in another culture away away from the usual traps and bilge

my language is dying here, our language is dying. it's become a  vast compromise


and  the stupidities which accompany it.

--  i heard a man speak the last week and he butchered the english language. why he was asked to speak is beyond my ken . except to say the one who asked also does not know anything of the importance of lang uage . what would a capitalist know about language ?  nothing but the words of profit  mean anything to them.  capitalism is the enemy of language as is the language of easy compromise . which is and has been the case here until recently.

will they relent? not likely. they've built their little empire of  francophonie! phony! phoney!

what hot! the

word groups drag across the stage.

Enter Language,labour and poet, and lover. Stage Right enters Power politics and their nasty clever friend capital the pig.

 A 100 act play depicting the harms  of capitals occult destruction of human love.

Capital prevents lovers from reaching   

capital steals friendship

capital tells you you deserve your lot and that it's your fault you're suffering.

  Captital does not like Art.

But sure knows how to use it.

____________ One can go on and on. One could/ two do.
What's two to do against this stew?



Re: dans ....

    re   dans ....

my reply to the little capitalist was    __________________forsooth! 

                                                                                            i live in a telephone booth!

                                                                                          & am happier than a clam

                                                                                               on the lam

                                   But rhyme's not mystyle

     i like it crooked


  unpunctu ted broken jagged disjointed like me

'the secrets of love

  amour passion

   toe to toe with the unseen

           and her '

   Miss and Mr

________________________ miss


dans ....


 in my little van gogh apartment

 ____________ a couple of weeks ago
                                       a little captialist that i know

                                     said i choose (it's your choice )
                                                                        my   'lot' is one of putting what was said
' i
   choose my suffering


   that's a funny thing to say   choose: what is choose?

                 where have  i heard these words before

  back in the old days

     another story    come back  to it


notes, musings,

_______________ Notes, thoughts, things going through my head   (which is at the top of my heart )  (my heart like anyone's is a mysterious place a ......... what's the word? something that I need to find  ... opppsss there's that the 'capital'  i          

  cornichons rhymes with bouchon

some people enlarge us/others shrink us

  they say a photograph steals one's soul     (hahaha how does one write 'laugh'?)

   what then does a poem do? ___   offers portal to better places    __ at best the line(s) of flight creating bypassed and roads to better head (and naturually  body places) the body places |

music , on the other hand,is a pile of shit| when it disgraces us with its false routes out to the song ' of death and self destruction| so many hundreds of so called songs are blasted with self induced malaise, miserable nostalgia, and the music buries the feeling, it  wipes it across 'guitar' chords.  where the intesnity of an emotion and its greatness comes from something, if it's worthwhile at all, that cannot be buried. im saying this as i just heard some awful gush on france culture and elsewhere today    .

      i shut it    off   .

  a voice speaking in the margins

   mais les marginaux sont quoi?

 re: Montreal __ the memory of a city .   . no  . it's time for me to go.     i hate what's been done to it, it's not the place I knew and loved,

it's become a small retracted place definging itself by the petty race of langauge 'laws' the death of culture and not its celebration

 the hundred or more 'festivals'  contain many imagitive and wonderous things however, they are in my view also a burial site of what's not said 

  of what's erased daily hourly the loss of street names,

    of roads,
  of schools

forcing immigrants to speak the so caled majority language all of it is typical of the

 yes that's an incomplete sentence

  so what of it?

 and one

(phone note to self) 

a man with a  sore back/ & broken teeth does the whirl
 around with a woman from across the sea


  what has been done to our city?

    the good/ bad
  the spoken/ written

retraction or /and flight and creation

       who are we?


  d reams yesterday night a city  i am lost

   where am I?

does the i become I? as happiness might be found?


who are the song of green and winter?

   there are greater cities in the world
  where art pours off the buildings and steams off the street. what sacrifices were made.

   i am  or i've spent so much of my life living on the fear or at the sense that  an act of violence is coming

          my nerves jump /my back
      's ready for the hit

       a tense machine waiting for hurt

   .  writing often provided a way out  / if it doesnt  ill give it up
  do collage

   stand on my head

           go piss on the waves

   of the nearby 'lake' or estuary

        -------------------- but writing is not a god.





do you eat mister duffy?
   no i  breath and die

                                            i am a battered drum

 thrumming between the lower case i and the unpunctuated

  it's  not easy to write a lower-case i
   a non-capitalized     'self' if one desires to phrase it thus
  imagining or creating

                                        outside the period[s]  





is this the dark night of timber and rain the heat across the heart?
what languor stretches  the moon over a field the fire
   the white found
   as the withdrawn sun
            and you are blanketed by the thing that loves us

                  the rain speedily falling following down running after the things it loves
         that love wonders the pure cerulean sky and
   it is the word that's beautiful  in this the cerulean firmament far flung with clouds
spattered across its infinite surface of

            blue beyond blue