some obsERVatIons and VaCations abOut LiteraRy ThEoRy


The more literary theory produces the more it becomes a legitimized source of study all on its own. It

no longer relies on the originating works of writers. (But has now begun to exist beside it as quite 

legitimate activity of belles-lettres). Rather it does respect the "original," but brings to it a study of its "means of production" on all levels.  'The '

reverence has been put in abeyance, like authors have been since Barthes Foucault and company

. (are now parenthesised by the incredible industry but with not quite the same reverence it used to have.) Literary theory has become its own source and no longer relies primarily on the original texts 

which once gave literary criticism its raison d'etre. The author has lost his or her pre-eminence - there are different reasons for this; but for anyone who has written imaginative literature, there is a 

difference and a pre-eminence given to authors, especially poets. It seems we have lost the "religious"

or sacred feel that surrounds the poet in other times and in other societies. Why is it we spend so much time interpreting when the writing is in fact an interpretation of us and our lives?

Thy feet

sandal shod

thy feet to measure

he measures thy feet to metre

with real pleasure

the list of the literary theoreticians goes on and on an one
like a heliotrope _ goin by the sun


It's only by writing that you breath, Oedipus, Orpheus,
it's all the same thing, twice, two fingers, twice, --
Birthdays are some thing to remember you didn't get what you want
-- O so life is thee lonely pain bowl, the Christ
of emptiness, and you think all those --- died in gas,
and the others, millions too, died in vain--
Christ,of Jack emptiness
Oh!, damn me out, to hell with Orpheus, his lousy bag-pipes
're meant for pretty girls that kill'em in the end,
or he gets gay, from grief, now that's a nice alliteration,

Mister Orpheus Oedipus with you deluxe edition ego, super-ego, trammeld libido Id, what Id is,/The Wall of Infinity,
and the other places you go, and how to print this,
and what to walk it, making it work , like the slow pride of time,
some bodies, and women , their breasts, make hurricanes happen,
not happiness, but men, over centried centuries /

I see them or something sees them "my" eyes,
which is more like my drive, instinct, cock, something in my head pre-cerebral, pre-Ceres, or rules, by the curve, by its curve,
Ceres not cerebral
Between the Reality and Truth stations

a word

my word

word discovered & held in the

cradle of my thumb


You have joy in your life, laughter and hearth
not the old dead beats of the new and old,
like it goes in their breath
which misses the enlightenment
and their song
their enjambment



.. all down s


Calling all downs. Calling all downs to dayne. Array! Surrection! Eireweeker to the wohld bludyn world.




his biggest mistake  ~ 'winter'  as creating the universe the universal uni Vers al

    artist  looked the other way    and

everything froze

  the warmth of his look lost in the rays of 'outer' space like a  gypsy who cannot reprieve his son

falling falling falling into the infinite nether reaches of death's clamor
a dirty breath for the sinful breed of its crumbling masonry
    who owns  a                world?
     here comes everybody 


 childhood is like this  a long dream
    created in a gaze long glued to the past
ripped in nostalgia
buried under sighs that count no bridge
a  baby glancing a t the tide 
 his father's gone

the universe crumbles

  that version 
      of its uneven pinch
stolen by the tides

  Memoirs of a winter retensity /0/1220 the return of the Pressed leaf


more than wishing


 More than wishing well
          I hope for her the best
                   best healing best recovery from illness, sorrow, sickness,
                      the best for
                                    body and soul


a few thoughts crossed my mind and of course, there were more,&others poetry works cross oceans, planes of existence,


the night opened up you came in
     g. went out
  it's not my fault you stayed in spite 'of me'
            against my will not planned
          by me for sure that's the
               day opening out the waves backlogged
                working their way
                              fluttering overhead the bees buzz
                               rigging the work fishermen make
             trusting the inspiration their hope
                                   Elle went about in along river
                                         a round tent in hand
                       Tu you came in a world rounder than universe
                                 portions of time came
                      I owed you perhaps another time
                     a body in life in the 17 c? was it that
                        riding in a carriage you and I stuck to the
                             turpitude of time the roving truck

                         there will be more there will always be more
                                  my complete works working incomplete , printed, seen, unseen, blogged,recorded,videod, audio, handwritten, collaged ,  all things collecting and uncollecting making the thing lasting,
    what is the work but  a work 'oriver an iver  forever and ever whe from everlasting to everlasting
                ochre the orient sky



and enter coast Wednesday it rhymes with boast


             Xerxes the xerox god: crash of surf
                                                        smash of rock and water

                                  the hurricane pounded away ceaselessly people without water
                                                 or electricity

                                                                         you survived


the chariest


n a sense switch that demonstrates that love can be both bitter and sweet, chary later came to mean "dear" or "cherished." That's how 16th-century English dramatist George Peele used it: "the chariest and the choicest queen, That ever did delight my royal eyes." Both sorrow and affection have largely faded from chary, however, and in Modern English the word is most often used as a synonym of either careful or sparing.



And how about the North and South coast?

We 'll talk about that another time how G. who'd said  I'd, you'd been, been ,  been crazy

    over,who  she rejected, refused, and denied me again and again

                                            went to the North Pole,

                      yes we ll talk about that,  how I at the ripe age of 30, ended up at the bottom

          of South America wending my way, to the Antarctic where I'd met a peculiar class of women

             runaways, fugitives,

 we were not chary of their love,

                               affection tearing the frozen afternoons, the afterbirth of death and  life,

                                       for the sake of those which made sense
                                                              your cities grew wise
                                                                           air winding its way along avenues
                                                                                                   nimbly and free
                                                           goodbye to the car,
                                                                                   welcome to the world saunterer,



as far as coasts go..


   the East is more human, the west coast lost  that flair ages ago   ~ the east was smaller and poorer retaining

   heart, humanity, soul, care neighborliness without being intrusive and nosy,

closer to the wilds and rough poverty, not no fun, 

                                 dont lets mystify it,

East coast water

                                woods,  lands,    brooks,  falls, flats,     streamings,

                              magnetic hill,                              small towns, railroads,

                                             the ocean not far, fish,
                                    isn't love kinder in those region? cause love's always cruel otherwise
                                                              an worse in the bigger cities,

                                                         where capital chop chop chops it's hand wrecking everything
                                                                         with ego, and dollar signs and everything,
                                                                demanding the pretence to identity,



On the west coast


   on the west coast everything was rain and wet, rainy, wet, west coast, phoney and the bill

                   the bullshitters were bigger better more efficient,




   how many bodies   you got ?

                 at least 7? the active number of blogs, which are mine,

                in the antigravitational field of light,

                             not books, and dead gravity,


d i c tions 1 , 2 , 3

the capitalists tell you guilt
all you do is produce
they wait
for your poverty
to steal
your riches
your labour
labour is god
the capitalist is theft


rink to play


Rink to play. Think fury its parrot squeeze and the schizophrenic knees beneath the battering. Not will but pill making ... sassafras... grass... for the obscene berry ~

_________________________Jill's moniter . Thief to her begging food from assholes never lent a page in their lives.

Jerks to the forward obscene harridan hags always righteous at their asshole's revival ~

____________ A truepenny for your thought winding out her master's pair she's gotten every subject right, ridge to the claim, sequestered to her unwilling game ~

________________ If Jill's one she's one two three ~.

 For months it was vain. Weather vanes. And rain. Tarnished the roof. Rood of the christ jack bobbin on the tarmac.                  Bucephalus yowling  to stoneed  road rock in her hooves. A cemented dog god for the clogs  ~ 
                                Warning its feet could break anything
Because it was  grief and parrots. Pirates sullen as rose cleavage beggared in the further side. Dawn's best bracken-water. Not a soul able to make head or tails, following their limber. Gibberish to the busted rhum of their tents. Hanging on the high water. Coming over the hill and along flank side of the valley's girth. Bested by the window and the archers . Hoofing over the sheer size of its. Sizar and servant cutting back and the bugler trumpetting her fear. Some cry her cunt to the whole crazed alley.

with a gale coming on no one crowding its pent over dock, and. yes, my darling this's the judo chop of capitalism's last lamb chop.


Thinking you knew something Jill on the wooden payphone old drug store pharmacy lent to the background of the film's production...





love love___________________a fateau from 2010_ april 15,th,

I've no idea what this film looks like or is about. Ive not seen it! In fact, the secret of my cinema is that I have not seen any movies,least of all one called
Love. What is it?

As for Godard I've never heard of him. I have not seen a movies since the late 90's. I n those days it was a thing .. we went to movies wearing hoods  slouched in a seat  ..I was a  'rebel.' ...

 Dark and darkness    a cigarette and Chinese food afterward and it was the West coast   and it was go(o)d  ... With a small      D like love, with a  Big . hahhahha Love 's a big L. Love the Big booboo WomanMan,the Big Bad L.   not the bores or square i knew and  ...



   what to say except it's here,





Imperfect _daDa __ 1917 ___2017


imperfect corrections 100 years  1917
 night barred day
 the ship ran an oasis remembering kings gave in
    docks running dry your hope stir and mix bang bang dada
               dada a word bust groin
   things shopped  bruises negative  superlative word why brown eyed
             her darling socks inviting you in
             the clutter opened up festooning airs pride danced the maximum
 rate of vineyards and olav olives for her mouth down south

                  this way of holding her hair her ears tinily
                   over that old town
                                  staying out against the war

                                               combusting promise forced combination
                juxtaposition a way of life and this first night in the cabaret
                     where no deaths heads no soldiers
                               no war no navies no trenches
                                                                the friends gathered in the  racket





                              wednesday   emptiness  filled

                                                               the foothills the mountains 



Sample of a really 'bad' poem with the so called title : between

first of all you can't see it!



  1.  why is this a bad poem take each potato what a thing a crossoverd body what not's her ah ah hand invisible

broke by life's sputter putter eternal glub love bugboo
achoo that two dollar mile at the dollar rama

a deal working for amblies which holdout on the prairies


between these eyes your sleep marries thought
   captures the warm its seizure your day 
night passes passes its willing caring to know 
    answer this way your love speaks 
not the crude
lover you walked away from so arrogant your ass
wagging its two dollar smile that orange cummerbund wrapping
it back forth back and forth like a f__k that's gone bad
 meanwhile a woman in the side-seat in the back has gotten old
I'gnored her. She was loving . She was submission. I wanted her too
much. And you? where are you darling calling on the coming need
in your French potato?





      Tuesday was a day like any other without your loving body
                      beside me a hold in this world, lost beside, emptiness,


   but commas continue everything,
                                                                  blogs aren't books and when that's gotten
everything's forgotten

 begotten in the new beholden rainbow

                                                                            of love's body and the comma,

                                         the caring shoulders,

                                                                                   and looking listening for that
                                         new beat,

                                                       not pretending a book

                                                                    but looking for that new body

                                                 that new human body ever light,



the world this world,


              The world this world's a bedlam , it revealed itself  a'gain   ,

                       it usualy does show that terrible side, it does here or there,
                                  human madness in one form and another,

                      At the same moment the same day and hour thousands of actions of goodness took place,

                             I am thinking of her, and whatever ails her, whatever is causing her sickness

                                let her be well, and recover,            let her find her path 

                                               on the walking tour of life,

                                                 always hoping for her best

                                          wishing for hers and the best of others

                                                                  in this world, this place of hope and breath,

                                                                              more birth more life,



those imperfect


               those imperfect posts of mine always under recall calling coming back working

                                           changing here touching up there, a little, there, ah, better

                                now ,a  touch of this,  that,

                            as                       a                   lover             w     o      u      l                   d

            n           o                  m                        a          t            t                e                          r




     ' I would only believe in a  god who dances ' Nietzsche wrote...

                    all my life I danced and my god is a dancing one

                                              she's metamorphoses pure becoming devenir

                                                              waves over the universe
                 her voice chiming with the chord of cosmos


                                              theres no conflict between the earth and sky
                                                             which coexist

                                                                         paradox of light and dark
                                       moon and earth
                                                         half shadowing over her sky her face
                                    her loves and hate
                                                                    growing beckoning being born

                                   dying losing being born again

                                                        lifted off in the tundra of spirit

                                               if she's happy for an hour
                                                                 the sun rises on her face

                                    I swooned at the idea of her happiness
                                                                                  gifted gold goddess

                                                      prayers & lifted high spirits ran into the heavens

                               on her behalf
                                                      her  better




  into my eighth month without a cigarette ... after smoking for decades...