tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54566382011-04-21T21:25:59.568-07:00Dead Letter Gamebillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comBlogger641100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1144017299357905212006-04-02T15:34:00.000-07:002006-04-02T15:34:59.370-07:00All the institutions of ‘advanced democracy,’ all ‘social conquests’ concerning growth, culture, personal and collective creativity, all of this is, as it has always been, simply the right of private property, the real right of the few. And for everyone else there are day-care centers and nurseries, institutions of social control in which the productive forces are deliberately neutralized. For billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1105285639684560522005-01-09T07:45:00.000-08:002005-01-09T07:47:19.686-08:00...language is inherited from the dead and yet again and again it is ‘recovered’—meaning to regain control, to repossess, to create again, or to conceal again--by the living. So words are simultaneously old and new. Their universe is ‘version’--in the sense of transformation--and version indicates passage, direction, action, movement.
[from M. Catherine de Zegher, "Ouvrage: Knot a Not, Notes asbillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1089898306056912352004-07-15T06:26:00.000-07:002004-07-15T06:33:03.596-07:00Transformation as Game
The excess of metaphor (water, windowpane, book) is a game played by the discourse. The game, which is a regulated activity and always subject to return, consists then not in piling up words for mere verbal pleasure (logorrhea) but in multiplying one form of language (in this case, comparison), as though in an attempt to exhaust the nonetheless infinite variety and billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1089470809643563072004-07-10T07:44:00.000-07:002004-07-10T07:46:49.643-07:00bird
dead in the water
it, not lizard
descendant of dinosaur billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1083697017182276432004-05-04T11:56:00.000-07:002004-05-04T12:10:40.140-07:00What distinguishes a game from a non-game?
The most obvious characteristic would be that of fun. If something is called just a game, then perhaps it is being described as not being serious. It is as if real life is a serious matter, but games are a frolic. However, the game metaphor does not focus on the fun aspect, for it recognizes that organized games are played typically in full seriousness.billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1078759618165264992004-03-08T07:26:00.000-08:002004-03-08T07:30:29.590-08:00...rest assured... billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1077234325593222022004-02-19T15:45:00.000-08:002004-03-08T07:30:59.043-08:00...something once lost can return a year later and be 'resurrected'...
...new and resurrected...
...meanwhile, plagiarism and intellectual property violation...
...a net to entangle game...
...communication and culture...
...the 'social construction of gender' in 'particular kinds of ways'...
...kids all-a-tumble on the hardwood floor... billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1075499674158802122004-01-30T13:54:00.000-08:002004-03-08T07:30:18.903-08:00...in the ground...
...transforming, modifying, regenerating, recuperating, reconsitituting...
...raised up as print (?) one day...
...slow as justice...
...ripe as rain...
...in between it feels like sleep, no dreams...
...real-time sleep feels like letter writing...
...in-corp-oration... billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1074090819762593812004-01-14T06:33:00.000-08:002004-01-14T06:35:33.076-08:00...the imagination is more restless than the body. billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1073661356100350752004-01-09T07:15:00.000-08:002004-01-09T07:17:11.233-08:00This blank space brought to you by Dead Letter Game billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1072808052275907312003-12-27T10:14:00.000-08:002004-01-09T07:14:07.560-08:00stunned at the site of two stones placed -- one in the ether by the other's roomy darkness -- careless, without sleeves, scratch at the end of the yard arm
even this loving sugar-appled tongue, who could not grieve for want of a future, had too much "filling up form," not enough detail and data -- no time for interrogation, the room then swarmed with empty calories, the dunce's density
the billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1072364539575476632003-12-25T07:02:00.000-08:002003-12-25T07:48:22.560-08:00(MOVE)
{For me, they must exist, the contents of that absent reality, the objects and occasions which now I reconsidered. -- MLBLH}
wake up (on a day ((was everything
working again, or have you heard? -- he managed, at last, to "follow the ball" under a different lens -- or something to that refract??
i guess, but really -- hush, retract the senses -- do as i say, not rash cartesian billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1071873587647741892003-12-19T14:39:00.000-08:002003-12-19T15:00:33.390-08:00(MOVE/COUNTERMOVE: corpse meets elegy)
his face was not in impenetrable shadow, as the other objects in the room were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar -- it was not angry or ferocious, but looked at me as it used to look: with spectacles turned up upon its forehead -- the hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air -- and though the eyes were wide billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1071511203850088332003-12-15T10:00:00.000-08:002003-12-19T14:12:19.310-08:00(COUNTERMOVE: corpsaic)
from the cellar under the barn i crawl -- to punctuate my eight months absence, i have grown a beard and learned a language or two -- fissures in space and time healed thereby -- i appear with nothing i wouldn't normally give for the good wind of dead winter, who loses her temper
surviving on ritual and sugar-coated insects, i lived out a soul's life in loaves of bread, billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1071076773138345732003-12-10T09:19:00.000-08:002003-12-15T09:46:34.030-08:00(MOVE: elegiac)
enough light for whom? -- and even in this parallel meeting (dream for the dance) the wave of concussion : is that not a secondary light? enough?
i have nothing to say, or should be held to a whisper -- the room's now aluminum cold keeps the bad guys out, nibbling in the walls -- the old "dream of bugs and decay" returns, enjoying the calendar grid as a mix of friends now lost billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1070981201275236702003-12-09T06:46:00.000-08:002003-12-15T09:46:18.670-08:00(COUNTERMOVE: corpsaic)
i begin with a book of travel and propose to record the results of a journey into a region that lies at our own doors -- it is unpleasant in these underground cellars where the vilest creatures hide from the light of day, where it is dangerous to breath for some hours at a stretch an atmosphere so charged with infection and poisoned with indescribable effluvia
the billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1070634137595071572003-12-05T06:22:00.000-08:002003-12-15T09:46:04.733-08:00(MOVE: elegiac)
no, not "I am the one," but "I must be that one" -- does anything does not cease? -- getting a drink that day watching the news i'd seen most of it -- she waiting (ripple in spine) i don't suppose
the old work is an editor's paradise -- someone before you tugs at the knots, smooths out the cloth, and then : "abundant substance" peppered nonetheless with dying insects -- today's billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1070326922114963202003-12-01T17:02:00.000-08:002003-12-01T17:06:20.920-08:00(COUNTERMOVE: corpsaic)
please do not assume that what the dead really want is to return to the living
what they want (i won’t speak for them) : what i want is a second shot at the game of reparation -- better yet, a chance to meet my makers for a pre-dawn writing of the rules -- to take the bunch to litigation, to go on strike, in sympathy and solidarity -- illegal, they will no doubt say, youbillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1069775753529214042003-11-25T07:55:00.000-08:002003-12-01T17:06:59.200-08:00(MOVE : elegiac)
a body's length away : a body, horizontal : that distance, otherwise : three short years doesn't bind, required, from where he stands : a lengthy apology, freshly poured sea of gray
i went to tell her, she was not there -- on a boat about the age in which begins these three -- cotton crease, smooth powdered skin, a "kettle black" to pour the ashes, various turns
open your billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1069176595924426982003-11-18T09:29:00.000-08:002003-11-18T09:50:39.670-08:00come, let's visit the orchard with rain threatening, but soon deciduous and pine, rare plums and the odd prickly pear -- then, the strenuous climb up settling in for the night near water, trail littered with frogs
avenue black and slippery after rain or, let's say, to visit without right of entry (after hours), a kind of analysis conducted along this line of unbroken hills -- results infected billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1068746236080354302003-11-13T09:57:00.000-08:002003-11-13T10:00:46.903-08:00the letter learns as it plays (a subtle but necessary extinction) and never follows the same rules twice
one morning, fallen from dream, brought to light out in the many gardens trolling, a voice ribboned by wind, a rip in the soil, slipped weeds into lake's edge, and all speech attempts later that day : deposits of ash and sand
in middle life the mind passes to a variegated October, taking billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1068564033421920152003-11-11T07:20:00.000-08:002003-11-11T07:33:32.466-08:00an attempt to make the past seem stable and of course it's all a lie -- beyond space, back into the temporal or some new dimension beyond self-cleaning homogeneity? -- the schizophrenic? -- past euphoria? -- exhilaration not with "new surfaces" but formal (cognitive) depths? -- & words o words take your temporary leave
moved into treble and bass and must through waters before the line, a billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1068138424422446732003-11-06T09:07:00.000-08:002003-11-06T09:33:50.980-08:00center is always the "ghost of a king," while in a letter we evolve to polyvalent selfhood -- without being "massive" being without -- to sponsor, to rally dust bunnies in the corner before play begins -- in the midst, ruses and defections : ONWARD [realm of question, caution]
grooming the dead on a bad luck day, these weeks fly by, full in the fly-by speed of one long peaceful productive sleep billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1067972330927700032003-11-04T10:58:00.000-08:002003-11-04T11:02:19.123-08:00as fires die, lives start up again -- but how best prepare for the summer air-out? -- alar-alar apples or the rage of a fumigated surface, less slip-of-the-sign more trusted planting -- green edge of yesterday, beautiful burned corpse of morning
for I, use vertical "|" -- and within, a window shaded -- translation showing slips in the original "control text," the way the writing shams itself -- billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1067565456885522782003-10-30T17:57:00.000-08:002003-10-30T18:09:36.936-08:00forced awake at dawn, stumbling into the darkness where the cold meets the wet eyes, stinging -- the basement rigged with heaters so the pipes won't freeze, wood stacked by the stove in a nest of old calendars, good matches, the kind that light anywhere, light everywhere
and shapes just far enough out in the field, deer nibbling the lower branches, the lower lip of the sun, that kind of surprisebillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1067439201386785152003-10-29T06:53:00.000-08:002003-10-30T17:22:36.956-08:00whose life? why that one, just back of you (how the dark catches just left of the oak tree) -- last night in a dream i kicked and recoiled -- a small comforting loop in one's circuitry, a jutting of force as if suddenly shifted
that bad habit of going off without a plan -- cover the eyes : a source fire (cedar) burning through "syntax, idea, and image" -- in a grid, on a whim, low muddle of billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1066928351114055642003-10-23T09:59:00.000-07:002003-10-23T10:12:58.800-07:00reflections in a window, subtle annuities, a hushed lifting, flexing the gut, music and meaning, each humble themselves, a kind of centergy, a hush until the storm rolls by, lost appetite, romantic shredding, stand on it, speak anew (the slump of convention
but, through all of it, a willingness if not a willingness to... -- evolves (exchange currency language) despite the burden of practice -- billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1066757132618871652003-10-21T10:25:00.000-07:002003-10-21T10:36:54.580-07:00in cyclical time, but not without dew drops ticking off the seconds -- i would, or rather did, risk the permanent, and that's okay when the road is frozen -- nothing scans (or prints) better than the myth of permanence, don't you think? (plus the change ((a kind of planned invasion on the banks of poor weather
a casual glance back, i know, can usher in the next leap forward -- an early draft, billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1066333672606244342003-10-16T12:47:00.000-07:002003-10-16T13:39:34.576-07:00why go further? -- for the smell of surfaces, of course, and the reach of pieces -- as always, two contending forces, the STRESS equal on both sides -- a day coming up misty, sullen, a studied format for the work gone by -- much "cleaner" without the hum of the machine, but then a "glare" insisting the eyes must ache
and what else? -- gross buffetings of a figure i could not yet fathom -- the billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1066156471417462852003-10-14T11:34:00.000-07:002003-10-14T11:41:02.320-07:00back then, reality favored summaries and slight evangelisms -- puzzling, for what i seem to have done by striving deliberately backward was double the reflective power of the mirror held up to "now" -- simple encyclopedia of waves facing the ardent action off in a cluttered distance -- and elsewhere: the reverse of me though, today's valentine of consecutive, contracted nights
two rules (on a billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1065723576330836642003-10-09T11:19:00.000-07:002003-10-09T11:35:40.863-07:00to whom should i speak today? in this, my little tight room of doom -- in the absence of content, i had a chance to get healthy, and so my little problem of reflection
to err in the assumption that rules and objects do turn over (to ashes) when really the sad fact of repetition pulled a crazy haze across all mornings -- a system of restrictions
an early hour, like then and there, a dim yellow billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1065550644802031812003-10-07T11:17:00.000-07:002003-10-07T19:28:29.896-07:00watching the ground swell after a deep saturating rain -- this god-voice from the one for whom the attitude is open
some of the things i'll take with : lines from a poem, the misery of winter, light across the river, amused by the suggestion (pomo is more glut than sequence)
i could only trap "the world's equation" in a slim slide -- facing east, one foot set, one hand sanctioned by a movement billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1065100350691335352003-10-02T06:12:00.000-07:002003-10-07T11:43:26.113-07:00a shadow figure, on a page more liquid than solid: i wanted to change but wasn't sure what the next step should be -- i took a walk, breathed, relaxed my way through that day, and the answer came before sunset : in the background, rooms share a pattern (of ((small (((
flies dead in the window wells warmed back to life when the fires got lit -- could make the house of your dying and the dying ofbillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1064954540788806462003-09-30T13:42:00.000-07:002003-09-30T13:42:20.380-07:00up early, nattering into a bucket, which passes for a typewriter for a time machine -- in the arch-reservations of vainglory, the buddy-buddy "necessity" of filling in gaps -- all of these were pages, and in that still quiet preserve, nothing would ever come of it : except :
the smell of electricity -- i did look the part of the caretaker but stop, reverse direction, review the rules, carry on billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1064497983766365302003-09-25T06:53:00.000-07:002003-09-25T06:53:03.970-07:00My Picks for the Week (winners in bold)
avoided at embraced
fragments at casual links
field at house
move at capture (shut-out)
explained at that reversed
surfaces at surfaces (rain delay)
articulation at play
"Moments of conviction" at Do/Make
escape at missing words
billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1063238861643831572003-09-10T17:07:00.000-07:002003-09-10T17:13:27.303-07:00Dead Letter Game: User Manual (notes for assembly)
1. Rules and Objects [past...] (review/context/obsessions/concerns)
- What were the rules? (did, did not, could, could not, you would, you might have, avoided, embraced, must have, could have, ...)
- What were the objects? (to..., the first to..., ...)
- What were the objects? (local things, pieces, "fragments," "casual links," "secrets" (billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1062430285841155722003-09-01T08:31:00.000-07:002003-09-01T08:43:01.330-07:00[blockquote]
Memories are words, phrases, spoken things. Not the past nor pieces of the past but language and pieces of language in the present.
Contrary to the nostalgic elegist who proclaims his longing for the golden age, innocence and paradise lost, the reverse elegist, who loves to laugh, study and play, makes a deal, trading ennui and a serious spirit for play, work for study and sadness billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-106158063741402812003-08-22T12:30:00.000-07:002003-08-22T12:32:00.436-07:00you get a choice in this world (and granted this is now just one among many competing worlds, rebus sic stantibus) between carving the pumpkin and smoking its pulverized seeds -- on the one hand craftwork for goodness sake and on the other a four-fold vision of creation, fall, resurrection and salvation
the vision though, let's admit, must have its instrument, and from that rare external agency billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-10614027875300982003-08-20T11:06:00.000-07:002003-08-21T18:14:39.193-07:00a passion for redundancy recast as aversion to all things stationary, street lamps, swamps, memory work
rather than being simply rejected in full, understood as contrivance, as artifice, as changes to a mode of expression -- emotion recollected only half as good as motion redirected
a science of distinctions retold as a plain language lyric, notable for its anti-metaphorical metaphoric -- the billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1061130551770402422003-08-17T07:29:00.000-07:002003-08-17T07:31:59.533-07:00ex nihilo ad absurdum, ad finum, de profundis, ex officio -- a call to duty, a prayer to discharge the meeting, an intellectual enterprise on the cusp of corpus, a bed of stray straw, a victimless crime, a dropped nickel in the gutteral, a voice at the end of its rope, a suturing of the feeling / intellect split, a long way from home, a sauce thickening into wine, a reckless but we were just billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1060884581102385492003-08-14T11:09:00.000-07:002003-08-14T13:17:17.380-07:00(MOVE)
in desperation she took hold of the book and threw it across the room -- it fell like a New York cheesecake against the door and she knew then that her life had changed for good -- she knew that she had made a choice implicitly to reject certain modes of interpretation some forms of pronunciation and all manners of disputation -- logic made her do it but of a limited, distributed kind -- billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1060611539235463352003-08-11T07:18:00.000-07:002003-08-14T11:20:59.533-07:00(COUNTERMOVE)
the elegy as a question of forms, death as a question of dying, history as a question of force and frustration -- postmodern questions, evasions, hermeneutic conditions -- the acute lack of reaction when the lime-green pickup drives against traffic on a one way street -- this could be normal, couldn't it -- this guy might be right and the rest of us wrong -- there are scenarios billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1060355262522325282003-08-08T08:07:00.000-07:002003-08-14T12:51:01.660-07:00(MOVE)
He forgot how to manage, precisely. He forgot how (and when) to pull the bean from the vine. He forgot why his dreams were important, and why his laments had fallen on deaf ears. Over time, he managed to forget other things too--the proper way to begin a letter, the most effective ways to use both "objects" and "relations between objects." He forgot that praise was a form of desperation, billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1060140837575540692003-08-05T20:33:00.000-07:002003-08-05T20:46:26.013-07:00(MOVE/COUNTERMOVE)
Interviewer: I'd like to begin.
Poet: All right.
Intvr: First of all, the speaker.
Poet: Yes.
Intvr: She is struggling with the very act of writing about...
Poet: ...children running around, some people kissing.
Intvr: The crucial act in the poem, it seems.
Poet: Yes. "Here" and "now"--exactly.
Intvr: Here's a part of what you write.
Poet: Of course. That's billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1059428643441516002003-07-28T14:44:00.000-07:002003-07-28T15:24:48.976-07:00(MOVE)
you know the garland was yellow
and it came to force me, the yellow garland
turned forcibly out for summer, those quiet central months
in the quiet of summer i could rest for once
and no one came to disturb me, the lash
was longest -- long lashes like devils dancing
in the heady advance weight of summer
dancing with no one, taking some quiet time
while the months of summer passed billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1059252388505034182003-07-26T13:46:00.000-07:002003-07-26T14:07:10.323-07:00(MOVE)
some like where it's going, others prefer where it's been -- many are resigned to hold out right here, stuck in the mire and the mischief
the young C., for example, contents himself with the way his garden grows straight up through the cracks in his sidewalk, a once hapless seed pronouncing life amidst the random and the rotten -- the censor, he is fond of reminding himself, can appear billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1059069404875388372003-07-24T10:56:00.000-07:002003-07-26T13:38:54.813-07:00(MOVE)
O's eyes, effusive and trapezoidal, could not see what B's ears, miniature tea cups, were hearing -- thus the sun set on their developing malaise -- he could remember in his dreams the long nose on the bridge of which her glasses sat, perched like lawn sheers on the back of a saw horse -- but these were managed fantasies, conversational inputs from "like-minded" compatriots, and in the billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1058977620468583082003-07-23T09:27:00.000-07:002003-07-24T11:44:19.493-07:00(MOVE)
words like build and forum, like clan and must and periwinkle
words like words and auto-philo-mystic
words like words to contemplate and condition
much like steamy Hans came new to the world, bubbling out into the francophone squalor of his mother's new orlean's digs -- but this is not entirely right, for the mother had long since passed by the time pink slippery Hans came bubbling outbillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1057939513582011812003-07-11T09:05:00.000-07:002003-07-18T18:35:34.260-07:00as for proper apologies, uttered at dusk while the neighbors tweak their post-9.11 need for familial bonding, consider:
a good deal of N. American poetry is stuck in a very weird form of ecstatic abstraction -- lines or paragraph, the same thing: desperation in a realm of coined metonyms strung like porchlight pumpkins in the quieted night -- the tease of polarities beckons, and everyone's billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1057870476589726622003-07-10T13:54:00.000-07:002003-07-10T13:54:36.503-07:00if it's true that we are invented by our texts, then what can we expect from this invention? -- i can't even get it off the ground, let alone point it headfirst into a strong wind -- as if 'forces' were against me, but really, i have made (if not invented) that particular mess myself and must get to work cleaning it up
preparation as both reclamation and sanitation, and the result: patchwork, billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1057689008128998822003-07-08T11:30:00.000-07:002003-07-08T11:35:28.403-07:00stalled in the fog, light breeze off the coast, ants busy with some unidentifiable carcass, birds balanced and tree-bound, the Times in a sack on the driveway
can wait
for now i'm more interested in that beeny baby bengel tiger perched on yonder bench who stares at me, head cocked to the left -- and hoping, as only the quasi-faithful can, that the sun will not break through today -- fat chance
billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1057588706241956622003-07-07T07:38:00.000-07:002003-07-08T11:18:30.810-07:00mystery resides in the subtle encounter of light and shadow -- a mist on waking, some dark angel lifting -- archive of the unwilling? -- my nocturnal to your diurnal -- the setting of keys on the counter
abandoned, stalled, in transit, hovering, illegitimate, left hanging, forgotten, misfit, unclaimed -- a sense of future development should drive the reclamation project, diving in from the billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1057344022268088852003-07-04T11:40:00.000-07:002003-07-04T11:58:21.476-07:00smiling, busy with baggage, working 24-7 to purge the clot, anxious, weathering, not-so-patient, clinging to debt, forthright, daily questioning, less-than-honest, drug-punchy, cleaning bugs from the windows, holding out, melancholic, bristling, out from the shade, committed, derived, encumbered,
i keep everything in the air less like the proverbial juggler than the flame-thrower low on fuel
billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1057070145606510732003-07-01T07:35:00.000-07:002003-07-01T07:52:04.000-07:00nearing play time, anxiety builds almost to the point of defeating the purpose -- seriously, the pressure's on to produce (i can blame only myself for that) but in a different, perhaps reformed, way
the obvious dumps like a bucket of bricks but i'll point it out anyway: why different? what reform? -- i'll admit i've been close to the issue for a while now, this hesitancy to name the game for billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1056501110501631422003-06-24T17:31:00.000-07:002003-07-01T07:59:39.853-07:00the disjunctive text had its charms, but one has to admit it may not work well in weak economies, under conditions of suspect leadership, especially -- it's hard enough to know why the incense trail spirals the way it does (this is code, for self-protection), let alone how the currents flow not this way but that -- in other words, the tricky reflections absorbed by all manner of opacity billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1056306207088985662003-06-22T11:23:00.000-07:002003-06-22T11:48:39.853-07:00i no longer use a source text because i trust neither source nor text -- a source is too slippery, volatile -- you never know where the next one will gush forth, and there's no telling who has put in before you -- text, that seeming neutral, blankets an old regime -- you can almost hear it like a chorus of giddy and slightly wine-drunk cherubs: we love you, they mutter dolefully, and the lie billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1056139830379102912003-06-20T13:10:00.000-07:002003-06-20T13:10:30.476-07:00wins and losses provide instructions for, perhaps authorize, subsequent moves -- to the act are implicit a host of devices which, when choreographed, applied, bring about successful maneuvers
this has not always been true (see Round One), but the impulse has always been there and, in retrospect, eases the burden by suggesting some new parameters (if not rules) -- 'writing is a communication billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1055872029402210872003-06-17T10:47:00.000-07:002003-06-17T10:48:41.396-07:00writing puts time to sleep -- this matters only if the bend in the road is suitable (to you) -- otherwise, watch out -- you can't imagine how lost i am when it comes to the question of content -- even the trippiest poets often just 'write from the head'
now then, as for equipment, which while not always visible or immediately accessible can still be theorized -- here goes: (1) patience (easier billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1055601529612193212003-06-14T07:38:00.000-07:002003-06-14T07:45:39.306-07:00there are two ways to talk about the relevant "objects" -- first, the habit of repetition was itself an object: that pattern of threes, to be sure, but other strategies emerged as well, the worst requiring an exhaustive self-emulation to the point of breaking down -- and really some cataclysmic event was needed to break the spell, or I'd go on in some mode indefinitely, convinced that I had billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1055457230316842422003-06-12T15:33:00.000-07:002003-06-12T15:36:24.686-07:00the threat of options was a given, too banal to take seriously -- being serious about the threat, i mean, was not an option, and for the obvious reasons -- the topic here is activity, right? -- and of a particular kind: pseudo-literary, part research, and focused loosely on production of a durable good -- not 'books' necessarily, but -- that fetishizing of output anyway -- really the exact naturebillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1055289713311176932003-06-10T17:01:00.000-07:002003-06-11T17:42:58.900-07:00i was convinced that all writing was epistolary, realized only in the moment of reception/audition -- it made little difference, since all outcomes varied, but i held fast to the notion all the same
more crippling was the fact that at any time my efforts could be eclipsed by something else, a concern of the day, a tactic, a discrepancy in the ordinary flow -- which was a problem to the extent billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1055111281601985552003-06-08T15:28:00.000-07:002003-06-10T17:14:49.250-07:00i had gotten used to the idea of craftwork as a form of strategic self-defense -- i could never finish and therefore could never lose, or win -- practice, as rite, defined everything in the sense that nothing escaped, nothing was immune to my search for opportunity
but again these were strategic moments infused with an illegitimate power -- the threat of exposure kept me up at nights -- i had billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1054932427815370442003-06-06T13:47:00.000-07:002003-06-06T13:51:37.296-07:00on certain mornings i could really get off on the collision of time and opportunity -- something feral, almost seductive, in the conditions of sportive engagement (with: text, the word, sound, physically acting out script) -- the result, as the advertisement says, was a kind of "electric diary" transmutable in accordance with weather, state of health, work schedule, and a host of surely billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456638.post-1054864077694328472003-06-05T18:47:00.000-07:002003-06-06T13:15:28.946-07:00"don't remove periodicals from this area" is clearly not an unspeakable doxic moment -- though possibly toxic -- maybe in those early days of improvisational word-dancing i'd at least found a way to be 'happy' in a moment of dedicated attention (to: the moment of letters, sounds, the emergence of structure) -- a kind of applied temperature-taking -- and yet still wanting to remain faithful to billhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784952400457002902noreply@blogger.com