f|ace the fi.|nal...



               dont come here looking for      soetry 

                                           je suis un alphabétiseur



reading ... and


  readin' and reading undernearth the bridge .. the redoubt no doubt the betrayal of old and new
   what's  new with the pathos of performance a delayed form of involution
the tiny volition of what's nothing
   but  a few
  not a   nought
a  change


.... read


                          and where
            of what
is ita aly                                           quote from                                latin

             she's                w          o                r            n              a           w      a    y
            the                      s                 t           o                    n           e

                                                               reading  a lapse on death

  that's 2 down                     
                                                what to go 
                               it's what you don't show   

(in latin)

                                          a                     little pregant thing
                                                                                                                           what perpetuates the
  turning round ofthe fat old global
                                                                                  off the fat offal

it's not quite a page is it?
the subjectivity of  a blog page
's not identical to a print one
nor  a repeated word
the same flunction
nor the dumb ass
hair of a word
nor the wood
not the the thing
seen  nor heard

but perhaps greater 
truer to
the spirit

of poetry


C.P.   True what does word signifiy to you? in  this instance.

C.D.  __ I think what i meant is the blog activity and the subjectivity is closer to the  actual creation
of poetry 

i dont mean true or real in some platonic ideation   or any reactive criticisms coming from that strain of thought...

   i mean there's something about the creation in the moment of a poem  a text, as its called...

Oh wait i have to go the phone just rang! i have to go! 





but tell me about your fifteen minute love affair?
  is it true? real, false, reel to reel fantasy or phantasmagoria
at a bus stop two lovers
  holding their breath?
  a whoosh as the sound of the bus leaves

   or was it the train i was on heading south winding through Alabama Georgia, South Carolina, and New Orleans,

down by eventually, Mexico way,

____ what was that? but three years back ,

   a clandestine trip over a fortnight no one knowing none any  the worse,



pulling in


     Pulling in 'bad' poems, those too sick to repair, mend, back to the factory, the blogs like machines breaking down... switchin' modes, changing tracks,

 who reads you?
            bots? illusions of eye? notions of ear , feelings of nearness when intimacy's best friend is a drunken stranger,

 does the typewriter re-set the page?

    the assembled parts of the 'volume' detecting a space of agency
      between each breath a life,

and speaking of which,