August 19, 1995
e-mail: Ninth     9th St. Laboratories, P.O.Box 3112, Florence,
Al 35630

             Jack Foley

In both the present and the past ,in both the West and the East, man has not
been satisfied  with living only in
immediate actuality, only in the phenomena of sensation, only in the present
world, he said--

these days, the moon
seems full
all night

Adios, Nonino--


              The man--

                            The woman--

Houses were built one at a time. Since the architect was not a contractor, he
was not in a position to introduce
substantive innovation to the building process.

not to end
this ten-

unable to
concentrate to
the mind--happiness?

were so beautiful as we walked I thought
(deceiving myself) that I had found
"help"        I thought I felt
your heart     open    to mine
thought I felt       "love"
thought I felt
your world your story "you" (your pain)
open to "me"
thought I could open
to you
as well
This is self-deception
born out of need
This is falsity
This is stupidity
opening its eyes & seeing
nothing at all

             I thought I felt

your heart   open    to mine

Reader complicity is an interesting question, he said. (the desire for
"integration," wholeness) Surely a poet like Blake requires it, so it is no
new thing. I think that any act of writing is necessarily an assertion of the
priority of the author's consciousness--though the extent of that assertion
may vary. Socrates complains in The Phaedrus that writing does not allow for
genuine dialogue, can't be answered back.     If writing is a
conversation, it is a conversation with someone who isn't there

what does it mean?              semiotic erotics
to see by
but to signal


In endeavoring to form some idea of the nature of human consciousness as
distinct from that of animal
consciousness, I shall allow myself the use of more than one image.  One
image cannot possibly represent
consciousness, and there is often more  DANGER  in a single image than in
several together.  For several
employeed together destroy each other, and leave the mind
to dwell on the idea for which they stand.


                 Jeffrey Little

for years i craved nothing but salt lick--i was like a roman
surveying an aqueduct except none of their charts
were sought.  i became infatuated 
w/the darknesses the stolid darknesses about the knee.

of the delicate almost silent sound.

every morning i awakened to gravy boats on the train 
tracks' kingdom of light.  the moorings intrigued me.  

they were like souls being taught calculus 
in a one-room schoolhouse
w/out windows the way a landscape takes on wind.

i was a bane upon them all, the lost-in-line, the badly
bouncing, it was nothing but buckets, all night long.

the music came from somewhere else entirely.  it  
echoed w/out a balance throughout the lightly beyond.  

my ears held more of the memory than the many 
bottles maintained, & here was everything i could not do.


                 REACH IN
                  Michael McClure

         the coo and gurgle of the baby
is the equation's truth.
There are no directions, no colors,
                 no sights, no tastes, no sounds,
    except in the shape of building the soul,
               or in mating,
      or in dodging the predator.
            The naked, tiny, pink bird
              wiggling next to the green eggs
                    in the nest
                        is aliving feast
               set to dine on the cosmos and to sip
               meat and nectar from the mother's beak.
                             I imagine
                             the reaching of matter,
              (till as Ouroboros it swallows
                the waves of its tail),
                              there will still be the snail sleeping
                              locked in its shell
                              on the branch

                              and the smiling cat on the gravel
                                        under a tree.

Something New
      by Steven Hirsch

Something new the vortex relates it careens and you sit on the couch reading
sporting goods catalogs if you don't think that is a really shitty way to
spend the 
forest Sunday then worry you sickly, bereaft of sorrow, moved in the cardinal

direction after reservoirs of cottonballs hit you in the snout since you
into a pig then all the headaches you covered up with shy bummed-out softeyes

move to dismiss the case against you for driving or riding without brakes and

soured like a cucumber at SugarFest the blues jump into the lake, something
new is 
a greener grass, the something is always something on the other side - 

Movietheatre buttersmell rock and sticky gum route in the parking lot her
bobs, it bobs in the parking lot where I left myself seventeen and friendless
account of big moon phases running through this Macaroni curve of grey brain 
bong resin.  Sit for me simple in this denim dress, straight hair stringy
widening lip and hips, course of wall-eye in the cold river through Warwick,
under the waterfall drowning the comfort I used to have coming in to this
now I have migrated, pushing my way into a statistical isolate of the one
group we 
know; leave the gas on all day so that a conscious spark could blow the
hood sky high, so interesting but I am bored with IT, blues shake the lake
off after a 
requisite swim to celebrate arriving home safely from a windy ride stalled by
spark plugs, blues fill mackeral cough drops at the edge of the lake, empty
gallery asks for us, blues cap the mountain via treeline off the bypass,
shadow of the 
hawk moves large and skewed over warm rock, turtles slip back in when I shoot
picture over bubbling algae.

All the women are psychic, all of them are great friends and they all have
made a 
pact at the genetic level to play with my mind forever and ever.  It can't be
than opening up to your therapist with a Brioschi foaming and coughing up
asshole that is no longer repressed or retentive - fixate on the parking lot
and she 
is in your lap again moving slowly and deeply against you.  She turns her
westward at Beltane to mark the erect Maypole's creative twist, braided
tobacco leaf 
is a gesture of peace but not completion, here let me tell you about my last
years in five minutes and totally blow you away so you cannot speak.


A cracker and a white bread big donut slut in tight sequins in a Las Vegas
coffee shop 
at dawn, makeup melted into bulldog jowls- kiss her and let the saliva make
gag with her torment but sweetly melting whenever the moustache tickles
her nostrils, thrilling to the warm sexy mouth wetting itself and wetting her

without mercy- photograph her shivering with rattled alarm at the neon 
kundalini rising in her gaseous eyes.  Cost of a ratings war on the sparkling
is sixteen young drug dealers all in a row, baking their fix of wack meat and

chromosomes kicking each other out of doorways.

Finally, we reach the marker on the dance floor and go into our Pulp Fiction 
imitation, the kids are smiling at us with devilish boners, when you kiss her
belches sardines and beef, walking shoes on her feet are roses, the
photograph only 
partially developed shows half a face, turned on its side her cheek looks
like the adit 
to a dark cave, the marker has moved, only our shadows are dancing.

The musty smell fills acrid to the hilt I am staring at the letters on her
breast inked 
in freckles, there appears to be something trying to be said, the grass makes

everything greener, there is a sharp edge without Mercury in Gemini, the
instinct to be loved covers all the bases at once - "fill you up" she says
passing with 
the UFO on a handle boiling black steaming extra extra miles, one more
but who will come with me, when you distinctly hear the butter melting,
her legs is like a megaton washing through your ears.  Pick you up in a bar,
pick you 
up in a coffee shop, pick you up in a pagan ritual, whatever.  Something new.

Daily Log, June 3, 1995
Thomas Lowe Taylor


Simpler manipulations, hand-to-hand wombat
Overland the came against the tide reeling empty
carts no battle from seeming less intent than throwing
hours permit from pressure's scent & scheme within.

Your hours call me forward from my own disuse,
a crawler in the mists wd have no outer sign
but loos-relief their own days' released forms
are pawed out senses have the air of inspiration.

Linguini presence, pulled out alive & dreaming
of the light between her eyes, a spot & sentence
from yr cards & letters in the sand says hello.
I'm streaming open hours against time's dismissals.

"Good ice." Brings you back.  Rising tides increase
the light gray with small trees whipping in the wind; 
small dusts cover the house.  You've dove in
whch has no doubt cast aside, overturned, beknown.

She comes at night, reminding the watchman's daughter
that you exist.  In the dance of the poles, you lead
them in their clearing from whence you came again,
informing, you might say, the dance of the hours' rentals.

At claw, no spongier disks float the white river in
its seeming to be plain or blank; not the same
air's retreating presence day unfolds toward forward claims.


Your dick.  These reports of solitary dreams drift
toward gluttony, or obliteration, they are not precise,
but cantilevered arches in remote territories indicating
former civilizations in their own quest for what is real.

The telephone answered; I hadn't called.  My luck


(for olson)

odin fucks black ink swans
blind tongueless maiden smiles
rages in violent milk storm
sings nude praise to solar fish
and egg grammars. foregoes the
mapmaker spread theory bet phone in
place of the daughter-venial-prop.
remembers each etch of bolt/sky text
(solder). divides the full welt (nine
cubic entries). eats boil. excretes
the new, rape of cinders in "rever"
in dimness as flawless towards hornet
nest and swollen fell
swoon hazards:river/fever "gamble"


     the goddamn           FIRE


                                  "Beyond the Gutenberg Galaxy"
                                  By Fabio Doctorovich


    Before Art and People, it could have been presumed that most of the
Latin-American avant-garde movements were a mere translation of those
developed in the hegemonic European and American cultures. Clemente Padin
shows that, on the contrary, Latin-American avant-gardists have in the last
30 years developed several movements that challenged the elitization of art
and its non-existing impact on life by using it as an instrument (and force)
for social change. Parting from the initial premise: "what objective can art
have if not to be at the service of men?", Objectless Art eliminated the art
object (which impedes the unity art/life), and replaced it by the language
of action, which acts immediately and directly upon reality, instead of
acting on a representative substitute of reality, like other art languages.
Tucuman Arde created an art that, based on the investigation and analysis of
its social environment -in this particular case the exploitation of
sugarcane workers in the small province of Tucuman, Argentina- confronted
the political elite with an exploited working class, in order to achieve a
socioeconomic change. According to Tucuman Arde "all public acts are
political acts, and art does not escape this rule." The impact of this
movement would be such that the dirty war held during the '70s in Argentina
-in which at least 10,000 people were assassinated- would have its bloodiest
battles in the forests of Tucuman.
     Other Latin-American movements such as Conceptualism and Concretism
had a strong artistic influence all over the world and contributed in their
own ways to democratize art and "get it out of art." All these artistic
currents have not only influenced society but also contributed to define
new concepts of beauty: a "good" work of art would be that which intervenes
on the medium transforming it.
     An important conclusion from Art and People is that any avant-garde
movement will develop its own distinct characteristics depending on the
surrounding social media, and therefore art analysis can only be valid when
inserted in a given social practice. Considering this unique sociopolitical
perspective of avant-garde that Clemente Padin proposes (perspective that
could be applied to any artistic movement on Earth), Art and People
undoubtedly stands as an inevitable reference for the understanding of
contemporary art.

"Art and People" by Clemente Padin, translated by Harry Polkinhorn.
Forthcoming: ATTICUS PRESS/LIGHT AND DUST, Box 927428, San Diego CA 92192.

what shall I do with the extreme feeling
              Ann Erickson

associated with your shoulders
& head across the marketplace
shall I stitch up the sky           bind oceans
needlework of hyacinths
like blood       very blue       dark blue
photons engraved on
eyelids of baby mice    orris root       sand
each particulate second filtered
shifting seeds
what sonnets are when the sun is gone


    John M. Bennett


Sell you off the index, stamping coughed the walls of
earwax rippled clues you never saw but faintly smelled
like mothballs gleaming in a distant closet, sack of,
never telling often, the tripled news tripped on,
clear wires severed seeing: no bell combs tanks
entries-roof the crows clack on, lists of talking.
Teeth was left, and ragged rushing.     (In the cleft's
relief, what bag was crushing



Addled tent, a tined horse chews shoes retreat seeing
sideways the single eye but twice, saddled with
temptation's tentative course grew spoons with
shrew-teeth filled, buried in the once-billowing
ash.     Ah I bring my lice handled indention
banks of burning news!   Mute and drooling over the
wall's flat wanders, cornice crumbled down the
talus slope.    Mud pillows next the stream I married,
poles and flaps!       (Or's soaring what you meant



That rusted mirror your face gleams snot moons
cartilage impaction holding thought through windless
night like, I trusted near spelled my place through
yawning steam your itching-spot and looming mud.
Some artifice intention glowing teeth you pout and
grin, sightless dust I (fear your splinters bells
hair, crusted mouth and spoonsx



       JIm Leftwich

imagine consciousness is more than mythic aroma hand unthinkable heart the
thorn the dagger in the flesh
speak always full well of ocher grass and revealed grit fear pain breath
weather flees the molten light sea
year ether read the wine of pleated sense camera weathered a byte of kelp
glass infinity an existence
constantly transfigured by mountains sea the failure chant of sauteed boats
teeth a sauna sails marvelous
games the chilled bets of cherubic teal grasses tragic sea the pearl of fall
here knotted in an eye salt road traveling flute of the echoed bodies
metallic fleece savage rain fabled grunts of wind and censer every form of
haste even toward the rungs of feathered light betrays some mental disorder
solemn post fervorthe starry
sea in the yolk of a moth shadows moisture isolated broken eyes in the adders
whorls work gold ribbon arose
absorbed golden join dark hull ofthe liquid curls atmosphereblood local to be
sterile with so many sensations
perpetual scry in the cave of jars poetry without words collapse rooted
thought a jasmine peak of leaves
distrorted political loss the red jazz of the foyers hem reforms power
paradox the jeweled hand of the cross
freedom conviction control lake of haunted auras our social we have lost worn
knot of resin moss of blood
being born as patriotic stone opened doors pockets cutlass drum and umbrall
bell we shall lose everything
reasons dying sulfuric camera circled pearls holding shout throat the hips of
the lake that shine like milk
approached closed song the dance of purple belts if you love the theif of
stone your independence the silver
gift of clouded clock words raft married to the needle moon known revolution
morsels bath the flying
mammals light you lend yourself obscure tropes the oceans nubile past in
order to protect it from the moon
vision collapse economic turpitude assumed discovery most of our troubles
logical neck of every fire comes
from our first impulses


from Talk Meat
   Harry Polkinhorn

don't develop particularxversions of ice-water, wishesxfor lovely thingsxbut
think living large requiemsxwhich run grandly--godawfulxthe extremesx
strapped in advancexby laws of decorousxbehaviorxmy intrepid ones stride
xforth backwards lookingxas they strike outxin all directions

newer, until you fallxinto close frozen sightxas cars prowl pointlessxas the
green shrubsxeucalypti & lawnsxrankly burstxforeign to the prior waysx
and now cut loosexin San Diego, the piecesxof flesh which operate machines
xcurious, deserted housesxbroken palm frondsxbeyond recognition

friendless yet operable as axliving moment which makesxa new register of
demandsxvague, apologeticxoutside anxobservable declinexwhile I study
treesxagainst sky, sky againstxall manner of evanescencexput inxthe
needles, I tellxmyself as a stranger

crafted a tremendous gorgingxtheir wily eyes, Grand Avenuexof immiscible
timextouched off meditativexslidexfor delusion known as formxteenage
runaways who cleverlyxweave through trafficxas to a destinyxor musical
finalityxinformal, definitely notxyour common voices

men arrived to remove tracesxas if hiding our presencexbut the opposite the
forcedxlabor camp where Mexicansxgrow food and clean housesxsomeone
sets up amplifiersxand plays Haydn improbablyxyet a fitting gesturex
although who butxthose very functionariesxpiece by piece concealxtheir
origins as personsxwith 11% unemployeed mutantsxsesonally adjusted

we held in our stomachxchock-full, an airplane negativexspace it's herex
bingo! you readxof people's tendons or namesxthey assign the new diseases
also unexpected crash coursexabout time grandiose startingxnoises all mixed
xup with feel of oil on skinxscratched until blood camexas harbringer butx
they pulledxout the rugxrigged wheels to rollxyour way or mine?


       All moot boom-boom if woulda.coulda.did,eh!? The ghastly wasn'y so
those long, instant shaows or the gloppy cascade-sheds, daddy? Why is my skin
sitting over there? With mama's half de-materialized head!? The pearls are
the answer! The blue band marches in the stadium of screeching Memory Death?
Extra heaps of potato-yams for Karen! The worst human crimex a dollar sign
and any number attachedx an equal tweenx and THEE life itself! We are all
static-buttons! How much for that dividing cell in the window? I stand and do
nothing. Make my grave less mellow. Earth be damnedxShetay-Blau!

6, 1995
collaborative poem with David Thomas Roberts
       They badgered my scout to the tune of vile candies and ballast-bled
sentiments (all whines drained), propping their stagecraft for another roundx
But my lyric stars Flint Hill, that pseudo-mount of bully memories jagged as
a bookstore, the thunder baby  plotted from hate's noblest throne. Calcall my
satellite this Victorian eve, adder-faced inferior! Turn licked revels toward
this fescued cannon primed with Rachmanioff and just as jolly to bale your
ersatz panache like a silver cloud full of pus. Masturbating in the middle of
a safe earthquake! Is be I!? The locked box of locusts! It be I! As Martian
saes grind the lore enacted into dustxRamainnotesounauka!

12, 1994