5 - 27 - 95

   To The Bloodless Refugees Of Emptiness
					     (final installment)

   ...For the common constituent, this means the confused rapidity
of individual opinion, momentarily accepted as prevailing mental
logic, the voter as such, swayed by a virulent and transitory
"verbalism", the politician aggressively sculpting a partisan
priority, attempting to evolve a fate, which, on the night of
election will become the victorious voice of official pronounce-
ment. The press will announce the candidate's personal apogee,
which will one day be chronicled in accord with lifeless memorials.
This, the glossary of an encompassing mundane, with its chronic
flaws, with its institutional hepatitis. The commentators
chattering like plutonic egrets, mimicking their own flight in
reversal. A circumstance conditioned to a prime complicity with
the tragedy of a hateful criteria, as competition proceeds by means
of flameless radium farming.
   These are the seizures by which the post-colonial is staggered.
The Western vulgus now invaded by a rhymeless dessicated wander-
ing through a maze of sunless hectographs, thirsting for amazement
or fever. Yet the masses remain annulled, looking for brutish
approval, or reclaiming their worth around a fractious allegiance
to some cold ancestral murdering well. The social cells consumed
by assault from habitual rivalry. Thus, true insight is shattered,
real living is averted.

   In contra-distinction, the Nepalese "gurava", calling through
preternatural rites, to kindle electrical stars in the blood, by
having contingents of people break apart and drift, and regather
by telepathy. This, the true arcana, the life above vulcanian
zones. It is the orbit where the bodiless is trusted, where the
proto-solar living world exists, as a sacred electrical drama,
as a codex of fire, as a magical agamas of roses.


	Conference of the Birds  KZSC  Santa Cruz  5-11-95

	Archie Shepp/ On This Night (If That Great Day Would
		Come)/ On This Night
	Marilyn Crispell & Irene Schweitzer/ Segement 4/
		Overlapping Hands: Eight Segments
	Mauricia Kagel/ Largo (from Variete)/ Variete
	Astor Piazzolla/ Milonga del Angel/ Lausanne Concert
	Arsenio Rodriguez/ Santa Cecilia/ Los 24 Exitos
		Originales de Arsenio Rodriguez
	Cesaria Evora/ Direito di Nasce/ Miss Perfumado
	Sonora Poncena/ Si La Ven/ Determination
	Don Byron/ That Sucking Sound/ Music for Eight
	Peregoyo y Su Combo Vacana/ Descarga Vacana/
	Beltun/ Ancient Chant of Kabul/ Afghanistan
	Monks of Monestary Rumtek, Sikkim/ Evening Song/
		Tibet 1
	Morton Feldman/ Rothko Chapel/ Rothko Chapel and
		Why Patterns?
	Fadhila Dziriya/ Ya Qalbi Kialli Ellal/ Musique Populaire
	Butch Morris/ Lia Talciona/ Dust to Dust
	Sona Diabate/ Kinikiniko/ Sons de la Savane
	Les Amazones de Guinea/ I Tele Ke/ Au Coeur de Paris

			The 8 Women Fist Salute

			Urinating go-go girls:  	
			The scene can refer
			to any number of
			historical struggles.

						--Saul Niger


	ach meine gott, the garbage hose
	a minute, a minuet gamelon gannonute
	a paraquet anLadderz a chute hose
	chosen pfew, musty muse linens
	my nose, I know, i know
	alluring attar of dried pissecretions
	ever alerting to genes future
	june's real mints, no words minced
	no words ny nose knows no words
	fitrvgt direct woring from nose to balls
	fromhose to go nose to go to hose
	for what?

	spoken genes walk all around us
	walk like a human
	talk like a
	think... ?

	and the rest, the residuum
	'neaths red teeth 'n' eyes
	why baboons, have canines?
	they pack, one leads, they
	eat meats, and NEVER quite
	rest in my gaze.  Never to
	relax my eyes.  Short, too
	short and choppy this life
	to assemble the man a pill
	box, he hilled, he sugared
	his pocks record life oned
	of teemd timed smear cells
	trod rocks, are rocks, oft
	ate rocks now vacuum gazed
	now tensed now first leaps
	in or out? leap coiled but
	in or out? to reproduce or
	to ceases. to leap one las
	time shoes to leave on her
	top, shoes to say clever a
	process thought you be, an
	Other here to go, inside a
	nother me here to go learn
	the game is the game learn
	lilac men, wiving, childer
	gain gnosphere delving sad
	jerking forward centripetally
	always straight parkinsonially
	smooth spirelling megaward
	lath of heaven's walls may
	crave a brain pattern a bo
	tote of bogir prelims a ta
	crane a bangs testing a bo
	ta as a bread peeling a ta
	tabs of bonds filling a bo
	tress a bands hairing a ta
	formalizm a tech scrying a
	sub unit a subunit a subBO
	a TA.  a BO-TA. in a botah
	vari ta, very ta, veritas.

	Shant, shan't shan t hants
	hints leverage, hants
	hants leverage.

	the music of speech

	speaking music
	muscular sprach
	ranting ravings
	peach s'peach sleeth
	slips peach pieced peace
	slim s'piece each pieced
	somes seems mist steamed
	thumbs' messd prest wond
	ring lest breast ed ream
	dream west dried heft am
	steam patternsed hant or
	reality, who am we to be
	real, to sc[t]rive viral
	viriled bitis vivace don
	my bod as cape you dream
	leap, slink, walk, sleep
	for me a turn, then turn
	or stay. roll over forms
	as dusted, from rust and
	glue, ordered by will an
	entirely improbable joke
	tireless caring as mated
	carrion solitude briefly
	ends turns checkmated to
	turn against the flowing
	the GNAB, unthought flow
	wolf as mold taught fowl
	as flight to recipe.


i would point readers toward amiri baraka/leroi jones's writing on the
arkestra and sun ra. from his book BLACK MUSIC to his first hand
experiences with ra and the arkestra during the BLACK ARTS MOVEMENT
revolution in 60's Harlem. amiri has many poems and fiction written
during that period which mention ra + arkestra. additionally he recounts
some of his encounters with them in his autobiography (i remember
vaguely a story about a BLACKS ARTS Parade featuring the arkestra.) also
there is BLACK MASS, a play by amiri with music by the ra + the
arkestra. there are tapes of floating around. try first _the amiri
baraka/leroi jones reader_ or better yet take the day off from work (or
the week) find a university library with a massive AFRICAN-AMERICAN aka
BLACK ARTS/HISTORY section (like our fine University of Pittsburgh's
Hillman) and read away for free even. (optional: with the change u find
on the street on the way, xerox favorite amiri writings and give to
friends.)(hopefully you'll skip his mid sixties ones in which he whines
on about world-ruinous 'faggots' and 'jews.' despite some occaisional
lapses in humanity, amiri baraka is a damn fine poet, writer, listener,
thinker, teacher and politico.)

				-edumbucholtzzz, TELECORPS/radioforthepeople 

T H E  L A S T  D A Y S  O F  T H E  W H I T E  R A C E

Radio Free Northamerica, Memorial Day 1995, Cyberspace


June Jordan/For Michael Angelo Thompson
Suzanne Gardinier/To the City of Fire
Jimmy Santiago Baca/Against

--from _What Is Found There:  Notebooks on Poetry and Politics_
    by Adrienne Rich (Norton. 1993)



                            "Please do not forget.
A tiger does not fall or stumble
broken by an accident
A tiger does not lose his stride or
slip and slide to tragedy
that buzzards feast upon.
                             Do not forget.
The Black prince Michael Black boy
our younger brother
has not 'died'
has has not 'passed away'
that Black prince Michael Black boy
our younger brother
                             He was killed.
                             He did not die."


"Here With this you can hold the city's
every corner under your fingernails
ground into the soles of your shoes riding
the pulses of your lungs' fragile chambers"


     "of dreams! Dreams, for how I needed them,
how I howled inside, sweeping great portions of thoughts
away with steel blue blades of the hour,
this, the time of my imprisonment.

     I split days open with red axes of my heart,
the days falling like trees
I chopped up into each hour
and threw into the soul's fire."

       Some Honest Opinions at Random Respecting
        Their Authorial Merits, with Occasional
                 Words of Personality
                  by Edgar Allen Poe
                  Fourth Installment:
                  *     *     *     *
                      LARRY OCHS
          _Mr. Ochs_, although by no means a
_litterateur_, cannot well be omitted in an account of the
San Francisco _literati_.  In his capacity of jazz musician
and record company executive he is far too well known to
need comment.  He has been the friend, partner and
collaborator of Henry Kaiser--the pupil of Beafheart--
connected in some manner with everything that has been
said or done musically in America.  As a record producer he
has always commanded the highest respect and attention. 
Among the _discs_ he has made at various times, I may
mention his various works with the Rova Saxophone Quartet,
and especially the recordings made of that group's tour of
Russia.  On this tour Mr. Ochs's wife, the poet Lyn
Hejinian, first made the acquaintance of Arkadii
Dragomoschenko--an encounter which had a profound impact
on the future course of American and Russian letters.
          Mr. Ochs is one of the old spirits of the Bay
Area music scene.  His philanthropy, his active, untiring
beneficence will forever render his name a household word
among the truly Bohemian of heart.  His professional
services and purse are always at the command of the
talented; few of our wealthiest jazzmen have ever
contributed to the commission of compositions so
bountifully--none certainly with greater readiness or with
warmer sympathy.
          His person and manner are richly peculiar.  He
is tall and solid, probably over six feet in height, limbs of
great muscularity and strength, the whole frame indicating
prodigious vitality and energy--the latter is, in fact, the
leading trait in his character.  His head is large,
massive--the features in keeping; complexion pale; eyes
piercingly bright; mouth exceedingly mobile and expressive;
hair blonde, and worn in matted locks about the neck and
shoulders; clothing neat and casual.  His age is no doubt
near fifty, but he carries the air of a much younger man. 
His general appearance is such to arrest attention.
          His address is the most genial that can be
conceived, its _bonhommie_ irresistable.  He speaks in a
loud, clear, hearty tone, dogmatically, with his head thrown
back and his chest out; never waits for an introduction to
anybody; slaps a perfect stranger on the back and calls him
"Buddy" or "axe-man;" pats every lady on the head and (if
she be pretty and _petite_) designates her by some such
title as "My Compact Disc of Hard Bop."  He has a
natural, felicitous flow of talk, always overswelling its
boundaries and sweeping everything before it right and
left.  He is very earnest, intense, emphatic; thumps the
table with his fist; shocks the nerves of the ladies.  His
_forte_, after all, is humour, the richest conceivable--a
compound of Cheech and Chong and Zippy the Pinhead.  His
especial weakness is Otis Redding.
                  *     *     *     *
                      TOM MANDEL
          Douglas Messerli neglects to include _Mr.
Mandel_ in his massive anthology _From the Other Side of
the Century_, including in Mr. Mandel's stead the likes of
Gilbert Sorrentino, Dennis Phillips, Charles North, Diane
Ward, James Sherry, and Abigail Child.  That Mr. Mandel's
verse, of which no little has seen print, is superior to
these says very little.  His _EncY_, praised by Bruce
Andrews in _L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E_ magazine, is a period piece,
dating from an era when "nonreferential" was a byword
among poets.  Mr. Mandel's later work shows a change in
direction--toward nostalgic evocations of the Old World,
peppered with the vocabulary of mysticism.  In _Central
Europe_ and _Four Strange Books_ and _Letters of the
Law_ he appears to yearn for a species of profundity
utterly beyond the grasp of his superficial insights and
workmanlike craft.  That Mr. Mandel has the _ability_ to
write profound verse none has ever doubted.  But Mr.
Mandel's laziness is proverbial.  To devote himself to a
single text, in the manner of the Rabbis, to worry the
meaning of a single line, goes utterly contrary to the
poet's nature.
          The truth seems to be that Mr. Mandel is a
vivacious, fanciful, entertaining versifier--a fifth or sixth
rate one--with a style that, as times go--in view of such
stylists as Dan Davidson, for example--may be termed
respectable, and no more.  Mr. Silliman has suggested that
Mandel's professed interest in religion is an important
influence on younger writers like Lew Daly.  What the critic
from ComputerLand wishes us to understand by "influence"
it is scarcely worth while to inquire, since it is generally
supposed that the younger writers are utterly ignorant of
the work that has preceded them; but if Mr. Silliman wants
to place the blame for _apex of the M_ at Mr. Mandel's
feet, we will not contest the point.
          A two-page poem from _Letters of the Law_,
called "Feelings, Foreign," gives adequate testimony to Mr.
Mandel's poetic activity.  The first stanza runs thus--
          I'm singing along with you,
                                 but more originally.
          Will a saint sound
          contradiction and the righteous
          not suffer?
          The clumsy rhythm of line 2 makes tedious a
thought already too arch for the opening of a poem; the
wry statement that follows is nonetheless neat.  Is the
statement true?  No matter.  The stanza as a whole
describes perfectly the a: and b: drives of Mr. Mandel's _ars
poetica_, the twin spheres of his artificial intelligence: 
_first_, an act of immitation full of feeling, which the poet
thinks it witty to call original; _second_, an
overdramatization of the simple task--so foreign to this
poet--of making sense.  He says--
          Continuity bought at a price
          of invented faith, bare illusion
          that makes no sense without
                                  the cheap toys
          that come free in the box . . .
To which we say, _Indeed?_  Then sing on, bright poet,
without continuity, and join the chorus to which you lend
no art.
          Mr. Mandel is what one used to call a gentleman
of means.  Not that his work _means_ anything, but he is
wealthy and much addicted to letters and _virtu_.  For a
short time he was the director of the Poetry Center at
San Francisco State, but the principal part of his life has
been devoted to business.  He has dark curly hair and an
impish grin, and enjoys good food and drink.  A lover of
jazz and opera, of cars and women, he currently resides in
Washington, D.C., where he is married (for the third time, if
I am not mistaken,) to the poet Beth Josselow.
                  *     *     *    *
                      LARRY PRICE
          _Mr. Price_ has acquired reputation--at least
his literary reputation--less from what he has done than
from what he has given indication of ability to do.  His
best, if not his principal works, have been revealed in
addresses, recitations, and contributions to the smallest
of the small presses.  His mind is more than respectable,
and his taste and acumen are not to be disputed.  For
years his presence on the scene, scarcely acknowledged,
bestowed an air of seriousness where triteness might
elsewise have ruled.  Since moving to New Jersey with wife
and daughter, however, Mr. Price has scarcely been heard
from, and triteness has indeed gained the upper hand in San
          His administrative acquirements, it is admitted,
are very considerable.  When employed by the Poetry Center
at San Francisco State he was noted as the most
industrious man in that assembly, and acted as a walking
register or volume of reference, ever at the service of
that class of bureaucrats who are too lofty-minded to
burden their memories with mere business particulars or
matters of fact.  In his last year at that august
institution the energy of his character appeared to have
abated, and many of his friends went so far as to accuse
him of indolence.
          His family is a singular circle of talent--Mr.
Price's wife, Loughran O'Connor, being an illustrator of the
first rank, and a fine painter.  Since leaving California,
the couple have attempted to establish their own business.
          Mr. Price is of medium stature, not more than
five feet ten inches in height, slender but compactly built. 
It is his habit, however, to go running ten miles at a time,
and this despite chronic back trouble.  His head is square,
his hair short; lips thin and tight, but ever smiling; the
eyes are pale and calm, with what seems, to a casual
glance, a sleepy expression--yet they gather light and fire
in conversation.
          He must be 45, but a vigorous constitution and
youthful visage gives promise of a ripe and healthful old
age.  He is active.  His manner is affable, or (more
accurately) personable.  He converses well, if with no
great committment to sociality, and has his hobbies of talk;
is especially fond of William Burroughs.  An early book from
Tuumba Press, _Proof_, is scarcely worth citing, but two
later volumes--_Crude Thinking_ and _No (World Version)_--
deserve a closer scrutiny than they have heretofore received.




	descriptions of an imaginary univercity

		   c/o el nine/ties