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Jorge Guitart PAUL IS DEAD? (for Charles Bernstein) I people of glut in fragment figment of shape with problem only mixers play sweeps figment of fragment sweeps else shifts conversation sweep so else time at beach body as get to nobody of face else conversation get to face sameness include may seriously as myself body as untenable occlusion include sameness as occlusion masked substance passing mine occlusion in disciplined something next as all this sitting substance masked in sitting persons of clawing of kind count of cleft equally spoken sitting fragment with a problem fragment of clawing of problem ends prominence over constriction figment smell becomes sand eye obviously in change not glut obviously smell over sand glut gracefully intended say to loneliness times more staring walking prospect nobody of face passing like mine gracefully walking mine particular repeating disaffection sweeps it unlike beach terms in mode equally perhaps terms repeating unlike perhaps question a body sag a like being whatever enormous reverie with saying get to nobody of that think body sag like with think loneliness hung producing for contempt as well as consciousness for contempt refusal a thought for nobody as objective refusal hung a body objective II figment else include substance fragment obviously gracefully terms body refusal fragment conversation sameness masked clawing sweeps to face occlusion sitting problem sand glut perhaps objective think SUSANA BATHED & chance & will & abolish & coup & d'etat & pa & why & there & nothing & to & eat & rather & than & roe & sere & ser & said & mere & crisp & sear & dim & seen & mound & blick & track & crisis & ish & time & away & chang & seer & light & is & heavy & tab & movement & ratty & lawful & when & cher & it & ill & mill & milly & nonny & is & glad & hair & saul or or or or or or orono or lala or lalita or carlos or caco or fidelia or patio or persia or bertica or branch & counter or clock & grass or deep & inspection or lid or sid & lust or faust or both & cost or cling or premonition or true or leg or money or nomen or ortho or bug or stag or jerk or mandy & shack & windows & ground or metal & your & fleck & cark or neck & antipatico & dish & means or which & heaven or latch & broadcast or cake & sake or saki & fake & olivia & filda & being or oblivia & boing & strata & egg or yore & sewing & vixen & cruiser or indeed & taxiing & over or necking & fee or long & ago or leach & us & weight & meaning or aisle & squib or demesne & demain or lava & educable & sixty or toning or lording or chickolo & fishcado & origins & permit & thermal & nota & meadow or hare & accent & livery & rhyme & rinser & sententier & rule & guano & mater & chisel or faithful & camp or bedelia & lump or because & angel & take or marks or why & bid & squint & rushing or why or degre & mara or particular & vincent & quell & for or detract & by or gulp or within or meeting or farm or flat & befalling & cloth & amid or between & locked & retract or pulp or flit or sync & grazed or audience & canker or hay & sky or meiko & caulker or mostly or need or settle or taupe or adore & bestial or cask or manhatta or format & evil or frescoed or bottles or cupping or jiggle & silence & kindly & tuck & finagle or post or round & sated or cocked & band or stool & cholera or hell & him or thinner or jocko & skid or mignonne & fine & point & retort or betrayal & comfort or features or help or filmy & half & have or fodder & dent or lake & umber & mold or primacy & token or menial & salve or spit or head or orbit or rented or quasi & daisy or bud or evince or oil & like & blotchy & net or byway & enamel & tandem or parents & paste & criterion or heard & spell & jell or norma or skeletal or lects or tanning & affront or clerking or necro or roman or bilious & transport & clump & novella & migliore & rick or drummed or gall or galabya or drilled or dropping & chill & alba or alpine or riddle or nury & blame & feet or fuyo & yolanda or penny & tollendo or mandate & would or end or plint & neg or madreselva & psalters & linen & carding & phoric & judges & newton & oyster & meld or quid & chimera or moot & wind or nook & sapon or turgent or loco or plaque or ventura.Ira Lightman
Michael G. Koopman Subject: Waning child oreo sunglasses SEE-SAW Right rose was left down of doves; Lend a hand, swinging up from wet marsh. Toll heard, runs to house rapidly on tiny feet, perched, chasing door in range and gobbles dangerous hot soup, au jus. Ukulele strummings in spheres as pit of stomache glazes down cones of time, folding like paper hats for clowns and green as mold shaken from hurling roc; Or, was that a bazookie swinging rounds. Will be gleefully extolling ventures, glasses missing from rotted nose. Straw boy manages to reason spin and fur's fruit is rugged lain bare; swine calves hours past centipede semi. Thrust, flaps, seperates, engenders crashing.
Stan Yankelevich NO THING No thing O thing T hing H ing I ng N g G
Richard Roundy CONJUNCTION like subsiding, a fallen tremor strum of inconsequential figure only posited forsworn urban center deaf to the noise of memory autumnal like a fiction receding, said. Gone off on a fragment a place to prop the garment of failed and release entries. _____________________________________________ in-twined attention and the verdant memory of a slovenly rebus collapsed metaphor or a barbie doll driving home from work over tangled jar-and-hill substance and plucked up twang-notion in mourning for a dead tune-row, the camera-flashed country a particle memory of a collapsible portrait about to sound in its static movement the first instance: forgetting how to write an everyday mess of things wired a VCR dream of communication ______________________________________________ rings with bitter and inability cut-off enacts untouched the physical world and also in the verbal sense to lighten in the letter just as the sun is rent soft beginnings falling in torrents a lot of questions an excess of about cleaved into possible reference to expose depth, flight, cartoon appearance why withdraw, encompassing
Thomas Bell IN%"tbjn@well.sf.ca.us" PILGRIM ( ( ~) ~) ) / (~ I D LLL ( ) ~ ,;~`";;, ~~~| V ? ? ;; l L O ;; C %% p /b w Birds wheel slowly up #%% \ / yy \ \ %#%%##%#%%%%%' | ? and over.\ \Branches reach %%` W{ -=O \ #% #%%% && yy endlessly toward... %%" nn )) #%# ###' // Wild ivy will not forget%%%` mmmmk %##%##%@#@%%@@%%%%^ nnnnq in-grown pains laid at the roots. ### ``'`"""'\ {}{}{}{} {} nn \ n $ I$$ \ #&\ #& &&& n $ l$$ \ n $ I$$ \ after Hakuin, n %%%$$$%% Bada Shanren 9/94 --------------------------------------------------------- ADRIFT IN POST-TRAUMATIC SPACE (2) "309.89 Post-traumatic Stress Disorder A. The person has experienced an event that is outside the range of usual human..." B. (1) Th Mauled tots swim rec etr my mind's eye all urr au askew, asunder. ent mat an ic Death on the playground: d i eve "C'mon, let us play ball!" ntr nt Action speaks. usi is ve ree I absent myself some. rec exp And then further inure. oll eri Faraway Rockaway prison ect enc ion e Enwrap pain. One way s o in ticket to Siberia. f t at Return naked on nails. he lea eve st one of the following ways: ...numbing of general responsiveness (not present before the trauma) as indicated by at least three of the following:... (6) restricted range of affect, e.g., unable to have loving feelings..."
JEFFREY LITTLE Dadathin@aol.com OF QUISP & MORE i. an electric fan sitting on the beach propped up on a giant towel like the history of the khanate contemplating the litany of unrecorded atrocities of the sun. it's been far too long i've been away far too long the seafoam reminds me of root beer on a dish rag & i cannot recall exactly whatever i was what i was thinking of b/4 whatever i've since become. sand i see no longer requires silicates or any erosive splendor at all & every memory comes w/a detachable official scorer passing for a snot-nosed proust some bum-wad & a box of Quisp in the single serving aluminum diner size. i come from a long line of the pennsylvania dutch phosphate farmers their fingers circled w/strings. even the butter staggered about. the little things. pomeranians swinging like angry mops from all the willow trees & the sound of legs snapping in the wind. in the basement i live in a basement now surrounded by fans of every type of every size they sound like a helicopter plummeting into a jungle except that they never stop no not for a second no if they ever did everyone would know they'd know it there wouldn't be a question from anyone as to what's going down these fans are more than fans understand these fans are all that & more yes it's been far too long. color comes slowly to a face there if indeed color it comes at all. ii. the simplicity of it all the beauty of it a wall of outlets w/a surfeit of backup blades it's no wonder i rarely if ever leave & who can blame me besides the dehumidifier has & knows well its place in the great chain it doesn't need the prompting of the blue carrots nor do i. crossword puzzles the plastic drums full of pepsi w/crickets tied to the water pipes & dangling down from above they flutter w/the wind so & make but the smallest of sounds. a particle board dresser has more resiliency than the buzzards or osteopaths will allow. all that i need know can be gleaned from the hands of a ballplayer a 1915 ballplayer kneeling b/4 a scalded grass trimmer on an infield littered w/flint. the rest is so much fluff a paramedic w/out a war. it's unsurpassed this delicate symmetry the delicate symmetry of the electric fan as it sits upon the sand it sits idling by the surf i cover it w/oil & watch it bronze slowly in the sun me i never had the knack i wear a large hat like a coolie dreaming of running an expanse of rails across the atlantic i make it my business to stay inside. anything is possible however i say this to myself i say it out loud i practically scream it i do scream it i scream "anything is possible" but no one seems to notice it no one seems to notice myself though the fan's receiving a few looks & who can blame them after all it's a fan. a hilltop is as terrible a thing as a valley is wise. doors, then, are necessary. iii. "every response, friend, precipitates another." the typical bus driver prattle it reminds me of sunday mornings of little round top it reminds me of henry the drunk. fans were treated w/respect then were accorded their proper place the position due them in every hardware store in a full section of sears you'd find them--waiting--a tug at the every sleeve. The Perma-Cool 3000. Encore's Ice King. Frigid Variable Speed Intake & Exhaust. names like connie mack's philadelphia athletics or the '27 yankees & beyond the giants of john mcgraw names that determine as much as they reveal that lodge somewhere near the brainstem & will not be tooled by movement or the blunderbuss of the sun. i don't know which angle is optimal but a few landmarks are all i need something to backbone me into another a few facts and a wall of fans another basement a tiny window its fraction of light. iv. & newspaper kiosks line the beaches in an effort to exert more influence over the tides. this too i've never seen b/4 though in retrospect wonder why. willows anchored to the sea floor. never am i as far from nor never as near. --------------------------------------------- SUBJUNCTIVES it's when first i struggled onto this promontory this lack & did not gasp not fall to bottom when first upon this shelf i realized i'd turned become the other the opposite of what i'd been there in the network of salt & froth my eyes no longer eyes the strident from forms a resonant where & never w/out fear the stinging suspicion of something terribly awry i should not be here the lack what are questions but want i should be w/the others in the same w/the opposite i look to & nothing but this other i this there now here i cannot measure i have no conversion tables to balance this is not i recognize only cannot but here somehow is forever i'll be alone distinct from displaced yes my home i cannot return the terrible journey of will it's there now i gasp stumbling i back into ache i feel myself i'm changing the other am weak am blind to what's come b/4 me all that follows please let none follow none i let them forget stumbled i've across bones i cannot tell the from were there others b/4 like me others questioning the is & now have not or are these the remains which could not be born to the lack who gasped who fell when i not i cannot describe from considered fortunate stumbled across i've bones i'll keep them the bones my language has but eight arms to describe them i'll call them not-home i'll fuse them not-home into one hang they'll from me i believe they've yes forgotten they've i believe this forgotten so much i cannot the out this of here the colors surrounding i move much better now i think often i'm learning but how so sure of this how the hook i hang on i look to the opposite i see no others but above me i cannot describe hanging some burning strange a beauty w/held me apart yet not i cannot move from it so the arisen understand but that i'm w/out that no longer the only most of what i'll not know or stumble upon i learn i become the more of what i'm not & will continue i cannot recognize the various others of i the distant strains of not the pains these changes all progress as does the hesitant this into that i struggle to see to find others of same but the any cannot until it turns equal still i stumble i forward until the was gasps it falls to bottom until this was lands the sea day all day long i name things i name i give to that a relationship an order born from need my need a need to convert the what yes the lines converging as others branch off i hold onto the root my root i fuse w/the tangling the beautiful symmetry of contrary that i into lines i scratch out lines all day long i name things i need cannot let go i-need becomes the thatlisting i into dirt i'm certain now that others have onto my this i dig through sand to dirt pick trees i discover i other the random truths they backbone my eyes somehow others here while i struggled naming alone into one yes i so certain the sea cannot sand i hoard myself & belly the grasses the odors of was i will not wash them the fear daylong burning a warning shot stranger form i still no contact though pushed of dirt i move now here i walk so & leg this air a darkened sift of not likewise a too b/4 me i stumble still though taller somehow choking w/names of not yet i wait i look to the there of sea not-home around my neck i remember i'll never not i remember the sting of salt the froth the gasping that never it that stopped w/out me my eyes locked on arisen my eyes red & burning like the hanging beauty of this home now my here
Duane Locke NIETZSCHE WROTE THAT TRUTH APPROACHES ON THE LEGS OF A DOVE the sky a mirror every mirror a mirage every mirage a night-watchman. In darkenss there are draftsmen drawing without inscriptions drawbridges. The sky is a beast of pray, a burdened breast. The crossing over comes after the flash of lightening, the erasure of the ermine in the drift of snow, the disguise of white among whiteness. The eremite migrates from the mountains to streams beside mills. Mill water now a mirror, eyes, wet weeds. ---------------- Things are More Complicated Than This honor HONOR _honor_ was the shriek of the Shiek (Valentino or valentine or Valerio Adami [the artist who sketched the Glas slippers for Cinderella to wear to the dance at the Disco] or the condom or the streaker on a rerun of an old Tonight show). we (we) [We] after saving, slaving money from not paying the rent, the rent in the universe, Formalist verise, went with money saved from rent to the horror show to see the blood drip, dripping, d=r=i=p=p=i=n=g= from the sigh, the sky, the rye, the ghith with its blonde curl, curve, its world, whirl. All the world loves a lover of blood. The family that slays together stays together.
John Geraets MANKIN Both the army is empty. If I look at it again I know, both against, and within a kind of army. To do that is not from easy trial. It's something too that's mechanised, a pool to turn at. It was invented because of the consulate and because the realm. The form of this is authoritative. A coin amongst the most touched of things, often gathered. A group is a state of mind and a state of mind is a prayer. This is why since I've joined. --------- In what makes copy what's happened It could just be falling copying what's eventually rid of attention. When they entered whose, open it under making various easier occured in winter once the ships get there ------------- FOUNDATION LOGIC As far as move clips forward, cue as baulk within a makeshift canal. A crane, turtle, and all things could be screened easily. Kaori maybe, iron, or the wooden overhang or balcony on which argument rests. It bows in clues. Now upends, grouping a melee uses of reason. I tell you, a bunch of birds has one voice. A thousand wings have a single throat. Angels form a choir. What is in array for. And figure seriously I want to affect the world. We all were excited. The birds lifted the trees. Like that: It was like an end. It was like an initiation. ----------------------- How far depends. And of all things mentioned to stand in eternity. "It's so huge and empty," she complained. I wanted it to land on itself, like a fish. But the weather is against it, it was awful. This was an attracted animals. It had a quiet, inner zone, one in which an ox for a cart ploughed a hill. And a moon sat on gold. One was a Japanese boy. If you follow, they said, that is possession. On his blue jeans Levis. She said, "What can tell their attention is knowing that." Like a spectator sport, she said, vigorous.
[Reprinted with the authors permission from the a listserv posting] 1) Spiritualism. Never assume that in attacking something as religious, you are not part of a religion yourself. Jung not Freud.
2) If you are going to use the I-Ching, notice how your interaction with it produces a different work than is produced by someone else using the I-Ching. Notice that your works are more like each other, than your I-Ching works are like I-Ching works by other artists. Stockhausen not Cage.
3) Keep listening.
5) Have Pound's decency to look back on what you've represented. Next Generation not Kirk.
8) If improvisation is free, why do many of its evenings go out to the same boundary and no further? Leibniz not Newton.
13) To lecture, Stein milking not mocking a restrained common vocabulary to write descriptions, not Derrida punning and concatenating with abstracts to provoke, always with fixed unspoken loyalties of his own, and not own explicitly. Close to who you pretend?
21) Non-Freudian not neo-Freudian post-structuralism, if any.
34) Gloria Steinem not Julia Kristeva.
55) Fuck gender-fuck, open up genre. Harryman not Silliman. Thresh hold of "becoming" an adult and "no longer" being like a child. Neil Gaiman not Ridley Scott. Nurture, non-sexual love sexual life; actual practice of community, professor. Elizabeth Burns' _Letters to Elizabeth Bishop_, not Derrida's _The Post Card_.
89) Hyper-reality and reality, extend, object both ways. Posters and paintings of words not handwritten notebooks. Brush syntax. Johanna Drucker meets Emily Dickinson.
144) The sentence was a good stretch, but now I choose my jailors. Sing energy. So long when you misuse lyric poetry as a prison term. "The voice makes possible the entire continuum from the most extreme consonant-like noises to the purest vocal sound, and is far superior to even the most modern apparatus for creating tone-colours". Stockhausen not Zukofsky, the musical phrase, remember, not the metronome.
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The truth of a process makes sense to and among those at the end of the process, where the transcription of thought on the page is a clean mirror to both writer and readers, writer as s/he writes, reader as s/he reads; the book unwritten is the look that speaks volumes between and among such.
This so rare that most of us do in the name of more, ever more, vocal and verbal, dropped out of empathy then yanked back, the lack of us in "you-you" the vocation of study, time out.
Oscar does not believe that art is being and thought is ugliness. He says so as in his day was no art and thought. Those who use Freud as if he were himself as benign and liberational as they do what he did not put sex against the ban on sex, power against stable.
Such sects! Lift up hearts, prey on. The dream can only create if sleep is not for the provision of rest, o day for rest and night for study. Bade the body. The good faith goads the intellect setting the church of our agenda which, fulfilled, burns. We digest the stone and break into a jog.
Dream breathing. Think, your very heart beating is bleeding and the blood next to come is bleeding into your heart, the oxygen is bleeding to become blood, the folks with beating blood are beating the air only. Dream wing.
All every night walk by the venue in their heads where perfect truth of process plays the energy of creation. All have greater artists than Shakespeare to meet, but avery eye, don't converse, few attend, few remember, we are special in knowing we're special not especially.
The perfect dreamer in all, in each, not a speaking to us all. Few go to sleep with the energy to mingle. I know I'm not alone in this. Shakespeare the artist in history, fifty of the sixteenth and seventeenth hundreds of years, everyone is Shakespeare.
The dead can dance. Dreams trot through our excuses, scared to knock such vital guards. The fear's not explained till the dream's not come back against twenty such sentries. Step out of the stage and into the tubes.
Stick to your gun till you blow off your head, walk again on your legs no one else's, carry your seed as she grows in your arms, out of your pain, let her, away from your pain. Think well of yourself, use your hands, get a grip, on the non-carnal gun.
So many arms, swinging under the noosed throats, the unspoken carried on so many legs. Like dream life's accidents, vile, we dream nearer and nearer, the guard hangs in the air, twitching, tapping. We feel bumped into until, joy, we are alive.
The ambient never wake up. Like you don't. You begin to ban humour and alcohol, the mares buck and head for the guards in new hope. Rest is not it, without truth towards process towards truth.
If you're still reading, no-one's got anything. Some *should* let thoughts fester in the mind, process the festering. I know mortally the years from when I was born, each day the unit of measurement cuts history into me-sized portions, knowing ledges. I dodder to think the art of it.
Sophocles mortal braved Freud, now so less winning. The Freud-led walk through him, more to hurt that if they'd gone by him, on every shelf in every flame-stricken library? Mind how you go. Excavate Plato, afraid to go out, for dream research.
Nothing like life to keep you from dying, the nerves are steel strings, loud acoustic. Song begins the vibration, words reason the entry, into society, largely worthy of nothing so clarity!
Be you once, the harsh heart sooner or timely, a slick into two dimensions, of prose, this nuisance is losing its once fascination, the pattern returns to its usual dynamic. Think in the two, drink in the third, things they don't want to reveal indicate why do you say that.
I get it. Draw on planes, repairing the prairie, the gasses from the busses, the hole us. Destroy two to save three. The hurt behind the face understood yields to surf on the face again.
The month from a flame that took our collection, from our senses, and flashed a banner over a dish of a dominant hemisphere, the northern, a cap with the bill right in front of our eyes. A missable interactive experience, a miserable sky made it so.
Is cool holodeck sky? I sensed it cambe back to my name, but a short therapist circuits the patient, tree dimensional. I'll take my "clumsiness", I didn't dream "it" up, I ride broken in the bumps of a world I ought never to have believed was mine only thought. Alive-in world.
The process of a sense makes truth to and among those at the head of a process, where the transcription of truth on the page is a claimed mirror to both writers and reader, writer as reader as utter; the book unsmitten is the look that speaks volumes between and among such.
FAVORWhat skiller'd nomenclature in passing no more unfortunate angularities were unkempt or forgiven, without pity the looser denials were swept aside in no more than that. What's the day, anyway, and you skip the rest, moving throughout the same as this is no mere destiny, but a follower in his own soup, motelling your own airs are swept away again, no more than icing on the format of your own toes nailing away is too soon for lessening the openings in the day. This is the newer throng, deep within this as thought itself was no other than a reminder of the newer flingers. A passion in doubt, that's his anchor in the dust, flailing wedge and hayfield, associated back, perhaps, but nonetheless a newer sign than the one around your neck. And in these or other times, there would be some measurement to collapse them into their own sentences, foretold within silence as no other was willing to do so, but carried the day ahead in wooden sighs one after the other was still another moon descending, sick of your own crap, you say, but still caught up in a slippery substance deeper laid on top of the surfaces of your own heart was still a sensation without definition, yet or not, but the stay made simpler against them one after the other calming or exploding, there was the doorway held aside from what you said was another spill, but laid up, but opened out, here and thus the loopier scores are folded away, let against hillsides in the moon's declinations, compunctual or fluttered, this is the time we held apart for counting or for a nomenclature, it was still held too firm within the anchors at fold or plasm, skippered from then to now, it is the pasture in his own psalms which is a sudden density spelled forward into the morning. I'd held too far affirmed within sinks at his holder's vow, this was not the time to stare at the wall, bucketed down with no gloom or fruits; it held and swept all others away into the light, and how his own ships went aside was not too tempers but another calm. I held them away at first, but foolers peeled whisked plenitude, like a monster gallery benign or sustenance, this plastic bucket cocked afar no hand inside your shirt was spelled this or that, it held too soon for anyone to make measure the funnier masks her own shell or fortune led to knocks the deeper fissure at padded line his blue air beckoned, as "old fashioned" became more a shirt or covering than flowing ships were scaled to bottom or doubt, his was the fooler skim, slowing to gasp of fathom, a denial of the rest was heldto stops, then shuddered like the leisure class, typing their poems out of memory, but sent to the end of time like what you forgot, and as this was no mere mention of doubt within categories, there were still too many to handle, and then dusks met a sudden shower is still your only hope in this, uh, melange of shapers. I mentioned the rest to what was left, there within a blanket, narrative response notified you again as fold pealed away, as color bedded down, but polled them at the doorway in sentences too calm to be relieved of their own passion, his was the anchor folded into another peel. At exclamations met, theirs was an agreed-upon air, or a plan of action which was labeled and then left behind you in the dark, beyond notification, but still held together with spoons and the cake on the plate, carved, sudden and intrigues me into this or that, it is holding down, he spoke too slowly to realize. Ships were floating out. But you counted, and let airs realize a formation of spokes tongue-to-field her own wet spines leaning out! I'd made states into their own particular definitions, but when you heal, there is the answering tides, slowly clammed up or made into special allowances for what fooled you the first time a good plot without sensation, but then leaning toward newer things were let against characters without assassination; his held, too. I'd ship it. Too lean to mention, but blued out into forgiveness, there was the teller at the shim, there was the padded push, noticing nothing wherever you went was soon enough to crap and leap around on the dusk of your own inventions, and where his was the cooler peak, I noticed nothing again, and flooded forward these lesser hours finished. I'd psychology and her own shores, skippered within thinking, another looser claim against attention, shorter here than the mere notice of chance itslf, one ticket shredded too quickly is your own excuse to what was heaped. I'd heard of it before your own speakers, and in the time of deciding, here was the loader pushing poems up against the wall, let aside into brown or orange internal pools fructate or palliate; and what is left would cheer you inner sperm, the dusk, or his own ankles. What'd you do? It was not, but still I waited again, noticing nothing again, but still you did it to me, waving slow arms were held too firm to pour away, too flailing or wasted, a quick irony was not met but infirm, and totaled firm, this husk, in her distant finer was the farm, not floored, but realized, intent, fashion, the manner of the sign, and inner floods pooling dunkers too rounded. The plainer sighs were still your own hedge against immortality, and catchier phrases were held against you, too. At the pooler shim, he pestered aside from no measures were made too soon from what was left aside, and in no motorships, these pushed aside and suggested something new. I supposed a density, but it, too, held affirmed presences were likened at seeming wedge and spasm. I'd heard of the non-narrational, but this was a spasm, too. Not something extra thick, but bacon or a letter. It was not too soon to realize favoritism among the alphabet, and skippers at the calm suggestion were not the rule. What passed cogitation, this was a newer throng, and let you down without piety, into other signs the former throng too flustered or diagonal. I'd supposed supervision was not really the key. It'd shred them one on one, but the lesser demons were kept here. Major throngs inside plastic formations. His lists and lists. Your eases, this kept them on track but shuttered. Her new breasts were bigger, but still her calm intention was shining, facelike in forgiveness, but still a hand, but still annual hands swept you away. Deep within, there was no balance, there was another term for this hucking out upon the floor, within silence, but new to the mats they swept aside. Even "something out of nothing" was still a simpler rule to obey than one to make it in the evening, on the floor, in haste or short of breath. This was a hacker's dream, pinted-out but lacquer. A push aside, a forester at coat and deal. Held at calm, but not too soon went the distance on what was laid up for the winner. Associative realms yield into nothing unfamiliar, but sweatshirts. Decorative and resistance, there's the deal. What'd stars no plasm folded, deeper within another calm, there was water on the nearer favors, as if what you culled had no name. A deal's a deal, you said, and did nothing after that. No matter after that, either, but held to no promises were slept or wooden. This was the anchor on your doubt, held affirmed doubts had names, too. Slid, crept, the favors on your haunch or western boots. Poker, shim, detail; all went too soon whereas inert sustenance relieved you at the sink or door. When as other's hours were seeded, this was the newer throng, and in your own hours, this was the soonest he could pall or fervor. Favors to the side, no mention at schooler palms, his own particulars contributed to the hole in your arms angling down the side, meeting one on one was too easy, but lunch as fear, but lunch as the door out, but lunch as the missing element in another drama, laid up by sudden gusts of wind, and made too soon to become another favor let in the dark without pity; this was the soonest he could demand at pool no shims the dusker in his palm, the ridged fold her inner sign, as pushing or not, the doorways were painted shut. It'd white, but not too soon, and whatever folded out was still a beckoning thigh, colored blue and purple by the dinner bell, this was something to forget and not too soon for me, either; I'd had enough to remember and let the others go their winning ways helped them out, letting go was too soon for definition, but the remake and the detail shored-up former favors shut or passioned. I skipped. And as this was another room, what went along was the denial itself, the blue airs, her own sweaters. This was the rotor at the melon, pleading for an ancient action. ------------------------------------------------- DAILY LOG 5.20.95 I Larger smoothes the righter corner of what you see by turns repetitive and unique. Original size attains its recall, the forward push of sign & time no longer heals the light. Long enough today, too, to say you are forgotten from the earlier stuff, what was it, an invasion from within, denying the present its fresh vigor and original, unspoken purpose. Broken arrows do not decide the fate of nations, who would even comment on that is not no foreign sunsets the mirror'd heart in its own heat beats the moon around the sky. Arc & shine, familiar projects. Yarded-out. And the slimmer doors, a tunnel reign, or stammer or co-rental in the season's own benign to tell, her's as the moving sign; awaitment has no passage. Floors to pour. I'd wrestle signs, their own density a promise or a spasm, either calls away your own denial to storm or toss yr lunch. At flat. Moulted shin, hero at doubt, re-lighter from within. Or boundaried-out, what held former lines exists no more. Partitions have a way of waning. II Your dick: at said, he dreams her on the wall next to him, nude by candlelight, energy streaming from within at a finger's touch, and music singing in the background of the evening's heated ways. I called disaster, but it didn't answer. My luck. ------------------------------------------ DAILY LOG 5.28.95 I Lesser fronted dailies pique less attentive gasps of renoun his apple's grand & simple are now your own eyes remind me that I am. The hearts warps no less plenty than not. What had you done? Any more decides yr name, not as doubt, but presence. New vocabulary hints new messages are in store again, but dust you often enough for that! Had. No foot the same stream twice, has the deal not unremarked, but shown, alive & well where the new moon says this is it. And not easy either. Lesser marks decide. You've melt, or me. Again. He did without. But the poem is the body, and its progress indicates perfume, or, perhaps, a message. The car parked outside means you're here. The Barracks turned out to be a restaurant, and the beginning was no longer amazing-- Even buildings on their sides makes sense. I'd hate to be the one picking up after this. Slow times has the day ruled-out. Never a new beginning beyond that. Whatever it is, goes beyond what is said in favor of suggestion/example. II Your dick. The same day carried forward what's against your will, even, and the example suffices for today where no answer persists. The day formed out of bounds, and I looked. My luck. and the beginning was no longer amazing-- Even buildings on their sides makes sense. I'd hate to be the one picking up after this. Slow times has the day ruled-out. Never a new beginning beyond that. Whatever it is, goes beyond what is said in favor of suggestion/example. II Your dick. The same day carried forward what's against your will, even, and the example suffice
Ana Mari'a Iza trans. by Ali'cia Cabiedes-Fink and Ted Maier BRICKS OF THE UNIVERSE Elemets of an arc seconds sought by Seguidillas vertical putty between traves incongruent mud wall against inclement weather interwoven with crushed stone heart mirrors All this and more on the nape of Don Quijone's horse, Rocinante They fuse confuse buildings without elevator or escape Socrates hemlock constructor fundamental rainbow of all foundations And these small quick shovels rustproofings in the Center of the Work (Seguidillas are popular Spanish dances and music) ------------------------ LADRILLOS DEL UNIVERSO Elementos de un arco: segundos seguidos por seguidillas masilla vertical de travesan~os incongruentes bajareque a la inclemencia entretejida por ripio corazo'n espejos Todo e'sto y ma's en la cerviz de Rocinante Funden confunden edificios sin ascensor ni escape So'crates constructor de la cicuta iris fundamental de toda base Y estas palas brevi'simas antioxidantes en el Centro de la Obra (Ana Mari'a Iza, from _Herrumbre peristente_ (1994)) --------------------------------------- COTTAGE LOAF I do not know if in Europe the houses have sweet handles Happy fountains of inspirational sayings fold in rickety solitude their wings But in America a piece of house jotted a note on a loaf of bread: "if my swarthy sweetheart lived I would serve him on my knees. . . ." "the price of taffeta in the clouds . . . what can I do to reach it. . .?" "Victoria gave me a scarf. . . ." "Yesterday the President died . . . not even the politicians get saved. . . ." "Dear Helen I leave my ring to you . . . keep it safe. . . ." Flies with soiled legs strolls across my soul. ------------------------------------------ HOGAZA No se' si en Europa las casas de dulces asas Fontanas de alegres anas i'ngrimas destartaladas doblen sus alas Pero en Ame'rica un pedazo de casa anoto' en una hogaza: "Si mi negrito viviera le sirviera arrodillada. . . ." "El precio del tafet'an por las nubes. . . que' hare' para alcanzarlo. . .?" "Victoria me regalo' una bufanda. . . ." "Ayer murio' el Presidente . . . ni siquiera los poli'ticos se salvan. . . ." "Querida Helen te dejo mi sortija . . . gua'rdala. . . ." Patas de moscas percudidas vagan mi alma. (Ana Mari'a Iaz, from _Herrumbre persistente_ (1994)) --------------- TONGOLELE G-r-r-r what a tiger the tigress swinging from nothingness Foxy flask calcined on the axis in America in Europe in Antarctica The African Continent illuminates itself with lion light of battles Red reddes vivid blue green ocher dissolves Wired into the heart of the walman autistics melomeaniacs egocentrics concert performers heartless B-r-r-r how cold the ozone rakes its calibers Twentieth century Long-haired (Tongolele is a type of Afro-Ecuadorian music) ----------------------------------------- TONGLOLELE Grrr que' tigre la tigresa colgante de la nada Redoma redomada calcinada en los ejes en Ame'rica en Europa en la Anta'rtida El Continente Negro se ilumnia con la luz de leo' de las batallas El rojo rojiza el azul vivo el ocre verde se deshace Enchufados al corazo'n del walkman autistas melo'manos egoce'ntricos concertistas despiadados Brrr wue' fri'o el ozono rastrilla sus calibres Siglo XX Melenudo. (Ana Mari'a Iza, from _Herrumbre peristente_ (1994))