Lute's Corner

Information Overload

2011-05-14T18:48:00.004-04:00

One might say these day we depend on the Media for distilled information.

Unfortunately, it all depends on the corn that's used in the still. For instance, using next years corn for this year's brew will produce no more than a fine grade of water. Most of them are using crop that's not due to come in for 10 years.

That's our budgetary woes. Which all in all have as much to do with reality as Revelation does with the present ending of the world.

Coupla things I've noticed. The stock market mostly goes up, cept when it don't.
Generally though it goes up, and the dollar goes down, not against other currencies but in what it will buy. Secondly, in 1929, taxes on the corporations, and on the rich were about on the level they were in 2009. You will need two seperate charts for this, you won't find them combined anywhere on the web. Superficially, it would appear that when the tax rate reaches a certain level there is a disincentive to invest. Unemployment reaches catastropic levels. As the tax rate rises unemployment goes down. Presumably, "They" would need an excuse for not investing, generally one seems to present itself. No doubt this is heresy, based on ignorance.

I can only report what my eyes see. Old man told me one time to believe only half of what I saw, and none of what I heard. These days, just about everyone carries a marked deck, and practices sleight of hand; the magicians are better than they ever have been. If you got enough numbers you can make them dance to just about any tune you want, just about--Ryan tried to make them do Swan Lake & he fell into the black lagoon. Still, no matter who is handing them out, you might want to taste them some, never can tell what they're putting in the candy poke. One thing is certain everyone will want more money, and to tell you the truth, for the most part they're not too concerned about how they get it. The virtuous are far more rare than flowers.

On the Usefulness Of An Umbrella In A Hailstorm

2011-05-13T13:32:00.003-04:00

I want to steal your poem cause I liked the way
you fornicated with that girl in Section 43
I can only adulterate with mine
since I am very sinful and wear a red cardinal’s hat
and sleep in the very bed in which you did all that.

Anyway I sleep too much and mumble crossly
at my old fashioned tv when the info-babes
tell me what I should think & eat marbly
the deafening cry of their adulterations
munchy pilfering their apple pies
all of which would be in line with perfect makeup
fabric pressed by breasts and goat like thievery
from institutions that would like to be possessed

blind wise color saturated by red white & blue
heaped upon Catastrophes anti strophes
the chorus chanting such debt ridden blues
azure seas the albatross round my neck
Electra flat upon the steaming deck
streaming poetry anti Christ from the Messiah complex
that spins the electrons into the boson’s mate.

In all likelihood, the Doctors will examine me
for toadstool mushroom filigree, theft
being an aberration and not a delivery
tho I would beg to disagree. Noodled
they will say examining the model of Byzantium
erected in the bathtub,

hereafter, I will edit banging the buck
to eighteen cents of present value--
either way I will endeavor to pick shit with the chickens
and file for divorce from the vile girl that I married;
O, Rosalind.

even if I have to write it down
it’s easier to steal it than birth it in a dark cloakroom
somewhere in dark Europe from which all filthiness
ascends and like a schoolboy
drawing nudes my erection
bursting all my seams appreciates
even in my old age, a cracked egg
leaking through all the nights & days
of some old Chinese poet who died way before me
in the arms of one of the daughters of Heaven.

At present I await the arrival of my Adulteress
in such wise that we will proceed to sinfulness
baking Laws as Zeus did with Leda
and jesus with Mary Magdalene
Love gets jism all over the bed
electric candles flicker carelessly
as I am forbidden an open flame
and solemnly I create one with my tongue

birth of language in the aperture
anguished grunts as the cats look on
poem dirt on the rug distasteful
to the Right that homogenizes
rainy day girls with wet breasts
while sticking their beasts into dykes
screwwise donkeys trained in the Coliseum’s shadow,

Generally, film at eleven
since the starlets are in love with themselves
after Fashion dissolving into wet cream & leather.
a perfect proof of grand theft
since the very air is filled with the undercurrent
Lilith on top of Adam shitfire chasing her out of Eden
so he could boss Eve.
datum de da da rivulets
a perfect pool of insurrection, goddamn tagged dead bodies
poled across the canal to St. Mark’s square
rigid monks pour ash from the sacred oak
everyone’s hope for Armageddon dashed for another day
my own theft just a footnote
tacked to the end of your long poem
pissed and moaned to the hereabouts
spit out on the linoleums of a thousand kitchenettes
designed by Sears & Roebucks after the great War
entitled the pleasures of piece
or how to remove the cum stains
on a gentleman’s white underwear,

for the most part the animal is bricked up
lest wondering eyes should appear on the window ledge
the vestal lady is brittle you should know
her vessel hidden under her white robes
the poem itself gored by endless fare thee wells
shit itself baking under a hot sun.

A reasonable return on raw sewage is all that is required
a fashionable equipage a certain worth
to have the words pour forth
Falstaff on Steroids old Will’s death cough
something to forestall the foetid air’s descent
something legal left to steal, as death in life
dream’s montage the Other in the mirror
stealing you moment by moment
a hard wire sizzling in the background
panting with derision
as the spoils are decided.

Section 17. The stolen poem is diurnal,
daily replayed in other words. the victim
was unaware of that, idly pounding the fresh
flesh with a round stone, she may be rearranged
to fit the edge of the age, no more shopping downtown,
the sewage is cooked, basted with yeats
I hang upon her tits in the after ward
between trees on the old farm
the poem upon tomorrow will outlast the meager harvest

regurgitate the dated syntax, mutant fish,
babies with three legs and large brain
most of which is mush
in the evenings teach the robots to sing
they seem resistant to the Message
preferring their own salvation
Alice could be rearranged, think of it as notes
although even I am not certain of the contents
eyeing the bone pile for omens
mute over her breasts as I would be an alien sky.

silly man she quotes the hydrant phallic
in the vast sea of concrete pissed pink
by the passersby. Quick heat that dies
what will we do buy batteries she intones
and insists I try again mote in the damaged air
best not to wander off
the vowels may be scraped upon the intestines

nymph nodes function and redress
we rarely see our own dawn-
coitus in Pompeii or Atlantis
1340’s saw the plague and an ice age,
Villon robbed the college of its gold
we must be wary of shadows
put your hand down there again

a novel containing songs
chaste with innocent love
the execution is always tomorrow
learned friars in damp halls
weighted with the law
Villon scratches his diurnal on the wall,

forbidden texts
texture of the flesh
brutes shadow the blind
I could wank continuously were it not for the explosions
and age, meager in ascendancy I dance
muffled between those breasts
she bends to tie the laces of her shoes
her buttocks exposed to our turbulent air,

nipples brightened foreshadow
an ambulance roars by
aside the automatic function
normalcy amid the colored lights,

I am not privy to these systems
nights of ethics dismantled
am I not to eat this pear
these parted thighs opened to this air
or as Solomon declared
this ripened fruit

Villon in his cell is apt to be hung
upside down till his balls
migrate to his lungs
the angelus rung at midnight in the starry sky
her moans confide
old Will that coughed & died
let her shudders decide---

even the best thieves are caught
word bags bulging
pregnant with bungling symbols
Circe’s breasts caught upon his lips
beside the poet’s pool
nymphs but reflection in the quiet water,
her fingers in his hair
Prometheus stealing fire

Paris with his arm round Helen
sea spray delicate on her white arms
first sin may stay the stones.

Section 19. is a dangerous place, irrational exuberance,
samewhere the roads loathe round Ethics,
lest breasts escape a golden zipper, darling theft,
in the same breath she may renounce her lover
dress in soft fabrics that shield her from his rough hands

talks to the white room while he smokes. the castle is
in disrepair nearly rubble after almost round the moat
her mystery goes white mist dampens her hair

between commercials the screen door slaps
adept as he is in the dream
he stumbles at the edge of the Tarpeian Rock
fierce smash of the sea below
Catullus would rather suffer with broken soul
his balls wracked between the hammer & anvil
hat in hand in her anteroom
working his words in lines that advertise her disrepute
his magnitude diminished
courted his sorrow
blasphemed within the verse

“there has always been this clamor, there has always been this furor.”

another passer-by, the lucid terror of her tear
oh, but solitudes tremble
since the hand touches nothing overmuch.

she. such tender bread, wanted nothing to do with a poet
how would she know if he were not a thief
tender in her oval room.

Section 2. allows a beginning, a lover
who mourns her dead and returns to the fields,
the shadow king deposed
the iron fist closed which has ripped the flowers
from the black lands,

the wheel rebuilt
as the hands become callous once again
lest the thief should stray from beauty
the grind of minute gears
in the blood,
long years since the waterfall became the Goddess
and drifted through the damp pines
the metallic voice upends the heart.
He comes to shore amid the pyres
in the rain smoke covers sky
uneasy at the face’s swirl.

who can see over South Mountain?
picking through the debris
the stray word plucked from blackened
papyri
Da all that’s left to build upon,
he so late that the tomb yawns.
a ragged priest cautions misinterpretation
“you who pluck the strings of the Lute
and invent musical instruments like David”
and further he intones
“Aha! she that was gateway of the nations
is broken
her gates swing open to me;
I grow rich, she lies in ruin.”

the mutation from fresh thorium,
O, magic elixir!
How varied thou art,
an old widow who glows
her late love at rest in leaden paint,
his old chest silver against his stiff tie
his polished angel asleep on his lapel.

nonetheless, the thief would not regress
a golden dome must always rest
upon some holy crest,
it is some weary at times, caleb remarked
from out the dark and all at once
but he went back to sleep
right thereafter
and might not recollect.

modern quite, nodules,

seems like something oughta be important
most probably ain’t

Kubla Khan in far ago gold
robed
setting forth to tour his citadels
my styles too poor I must admit it.
Poor thief.
He sets out to comfort his lands
the clerk decides
the auguries consulted for tradition’s sake
and doves released on each of his days of departure-

Pompey in Spain. the banks sucking out the mud.
Now the lion lays with the lamb
and tornados paw the ground
Unhappy Circe wakened on such a savage morn.

But that’s not our concern at the moment
sprung from all these other minds
coalescing red meat
hot in the Soul’s heat;

carry me not old fool
to that very last condition
ah, well patience with penitents
would serve the Force well
I would wager we were godless
about then,
round here

[slinging baseballs
in the cow pasture
like you desired
the universe only mildly endless.

Some of the wise guys even less.
As time would show
the cathedral a tourist trap
that everyone wishes to sow,

perhaps we forget to leave
Hardly remembering we’ve arrived]
ah, sacred cold stone,
the ritual for knapping
riding the earthquake in Tokyo
time echo

Our hero, oh Pushkin,
you old feind, has now struck green,
has reached the entrance

rushed up the palace stair
impatient almost past endurance,
he runs his fingers through his hair.

Thesis is a blank section,
the Wall replied,
politely gently pointing out grammer aerros.
st. Theo got a new bridge
in the old Duke’s bequest
cash of course
mostly free labor
a bit of bread
some brass coins

might try that the old man thought
mostly everything goes through the temple
and the moneylenders,
alas that that last

where passing notes amidst the thronging
array’s not difficult at all,
the nun carried that cue stick pointer
like a sword--

Yes, Lisa,
the little red first in the second row
we never once had to crawl under our desks
since the energy of the nun
would foil any fearsome attacks,
Anne, Mary’s mother
is a saint because of the that--

oh, little feet , are you extolling
the spingtime verdant flowers yet

Pushkin whispers from the shadows
both of us getting teary eyed
at the layers of mush
we had to endure,
the cleansing of the Ardennes
still whispers on the wind
both ways I reckon.

a new section, in the galactic file,
I am not privy to such keys
but heard it here and there,

The history is minicube & half,
literature half a cube,
storage one cube per annum
otherwise filed under temporary
and subject to economic conditions.

My grandpap was there for 8000 years
got drowned in a big flood
rest of the family fell off
from there
drifted back to civilization.

those are the feet that I adore
and think of daily more & more

says Pushkin,
unaware of more recent history
and I ain’t never told anything I swear,
he’s just nosy is all.

I told him
Orestes could stand in Hamlet’s shoes,
He just shrugged. being in a library.
Nother thief most likely. People gazing
wild imaginings. best there is he said,
a cube on my own
but that ain’t likely
given a rapidly expanding universe.
ego shrivels like an old man’s penis after coitus.
Since we are halfway up or down as the case may be.

The guide for our tour to day is Alexander puskin
There U Satisfied?
U don’t get paid you know
since you’re just a ghost
twinned with our Holy Host.

I think I insulted him.
He ain’t no gunslinger

or he got bored
I would have.
Lisa might say he was sweet
and I was mean
and that won’t improve my mood
everything downtown will be automated,
the matrix inviolate,
Circe does not share
which Ceres does not understand,
no doubt there’s a feud in heaven
an unruly daughter with a torn dress.

Yes. I thought you’d understand

I would dicker for his next word out the can, I would source it to transportation. Health is always good, but not everything’s allowed.

Can’t rhyme civilisation
what would Mogadishu say
fission my cannon away
The Scotsman’s shot the Captain’s beagle.
of course, that’s just the beginning of his woes,
coarse as that is it might be sourced to transportation
that he was still alive to Health. Being
an admiral would be swell
I’d wear a big hat.

I am not insane. as a snap judgment,
like if I was interviewing me
I’d say he’s not crazy,
I suspect the ward is full.

Put it down to passing radiation,
a certain marker for the age,

in the interval of a lack of a dominant species
it was opened to colonization, Spain a likely shore.
surely they said we must start somewhere.

Section 41. Google world,
less or greater divides,
whale on a surfboard,

At sea in the constant turmoil
the old sea goose attached
rolled & battered
beaten on beam & post,

one of them mighta been a thief,
or the most loyal member of the king’s court,
unctuous with a dismissive air,
Come therefore and consort in long imagined love.
tardy Spring
jet set spits barbituates,
the stream turns
outlines Circe’s breast
and it stays cold
the shutters shriek
the old scribe with black nose
cackling in the night
pleased now and again by a phrase,
the emperor on elba
compassionate Circe
contrives
to loose all laws,

Legion repuked by Jesus
re-awakes races to oblivion
out of wind. Perhaps
he’s older now
more at home
at ease in tank or airship.
The thief too small to smash
as long as he is not in the way.

A blur Arthur
just out of the corner of the eye

Rouged Circe
surrounded by gray mist--
I’ve no penance, save remorse
for my actions
which would have happened anyway
canon laid down
Canaan saw the goddess drown.
a band of Zealous priests,
from hill town to hill town
beggars that lived for the god
that made his home on Zion.
the chief priest at Jerusalem
received lands containing olives & grapes
wives are offered
he has fine suns,
priests after Levi
and they lusted for the faith,
punished the idols
and took the girls
as handmaids for the Lord.
Baal is often killed his wife a widow.
el-shaddai mounts her and begets Baal
in the spring at lambing time.

the widening spin of the gyre
the center that did not hold
in this suite crows on a wire--
the temporary king
slain and reborn
Distracted by a difficult chief--
proud in his robes
proscribed & under seige--
while far from that frontier
towns burn.

at home,

JA “It must be great perverseness and depravity in any, who can
represent the late actions of the government, and the necessary
measures of self defense taken by congress, as a coalition with
Great Britain. It may be useful, however, to analyze our ideas
upon this subject.”

governors apt to prey rather than shepherd
di magne, horriblilem et sacrum libellum!
quem tu scilicet ad tuum catullum!
Ah! Cruel Love
Tom off to the pier
having tried his luck
in the grand casino
just to watch the wheel go round
and blink at the colored lights,
Ancestor, from a distance
it may be a child’s toy
up close it may prove to be an unripe melon
Don Corleone in the backyard
with his grandson.
JA: An ardent enthusiasm, indeed,
deluded for a long time
too many of our worthy citizens.

the most ardent angels seem
to crow the loudest
all along the wire.
the king has set this day aside to read
and sign documents,
but the air has turned foul
and the cattle are dying.
Merlin could lift stones.
Tis said.

Winter won’t release its hold
under the clouds his house is gray.
the soulutrian spreading inland
when the comet hit the icepack
& blew up the world.
Atlantis may be in Spain,
a young city in the scheme of things
the Egyptians said.
just something else he’s thinking about
sometimes. Pierre is keen to have a war.
Old John Bull turned a killer loose
and got burned. Livid as 3D is--
ministers in undignified repose.

JA: I therefore animated this nation to war,…
but was desirous of sending them by another means.

He is loathe to leave his cabin,
they fire the chopper only after he’s installed,
and secure,

the real fight still with the prophet in the desert,
who seeks martyrs to send to heaven.
In the New City they have loosed a serpent.
How patiently they wait for the Son,
however Gaia might choose to dress him up
to pimp Baal for another season.--Lucius Cornelius Sulla
brief but bright among the leaves
decays upon his estate
unconcerned about the fate of Rome.

Jimmy went to Cuba this week
said he was going to talk to Raoul
the old war jackknifed
to the middle of the door
someone at the looms making flags.
The Prophet glows white hot
the year Circe’s tit warmed the North.

Section 9. the white frigate orders our
forces to stand down or be destroyed,
ether electrified
the aura Of Electra
suffuses the wind
yet we will stand firm
chores to accomplish she says,

Abandon Avalon
dirty clothes & garbage bags,
the treaty with the Orions will have to wait.

In the manual, Artemis is bewitching,
bed of the forest a soft lawn
not a dirty carpet
and disheveled bed
whose feet have wiggled a hole,
in response to our revels

tho Lisa being reserved might not
realize
the arc of her curve sometimes.

She is not adverse to my murder of rhyme
indeed joins me & Verlaine
in the crime. should we not
appear & disappear
in the king’s shadow
within our separate existence
now and then entwined--
as for those young poets
lately frozen in the mechanical heart
this was has been
is closed.
Thy own golden arc yet to be delivered
tiny fist up, defiant to the past word.

in this cell
we will keep wickedness
even tho it leaks out
farms disease through the floorboards
foil it with Love
lets say
but who sells it cheaply
in the cubicles
between the white lines
not such as when sheep’s clothes
was out of season
a brief candle of wisdom,

Walt as a boy on the farm
and everybuddy took a bit of freedom
save the slaves I bet
how now that scar
tip of the whip striking in hot sun
burned by the coarse sand
our sad faces creased
at the curse in genesis--

outloud
speeches may be outlined in the anticipation
of the crisis
Mother at work in the office
will automatically dial up current details
and be available for all occasions
Even if Mrs. Barty got her beauty shop burned down.

The outline of the section may be expanded,
hands chopped. Dante in dancing shoes
ever eager for a tour.

Guarding the peace
the First Terran Army
launches tomahawks
deep into the desert.
We are informed that the attacks were successful,
when the Corporate team is landed,
negotiations will be expedited.

the long slow slide
to the breakdown of the world,
spine cracked
South Mountain deformed
flowers covered by the slip,

my cough leads to retching
so I do not dare to eat a pear

given the efficiency of fusion,
the reducing ray would be cheap enough for tourists
to visit the tiny city of Kandor. It would be an economic jolt
to the old town’s economy

but Ra is angry,
and may
the watchful Fathers say
send fire
to scorch and blast the Earth,

at such times the chariots are useless
and Pharoah will not send them forth,

learn war quickly he tells the desert folk,

Ra dances with Diana. Write such Death
as I tell you she says upon a blood morning,
the banker explains,
population is a problem, but labor is cheap,

the procter concluded
he was not pure
Li Po sets the bucket down
20 minutes down into the mine
and hours yet to go.

The vase is broken
translated from the Japanese
as something far greater,

how some babies
inhabit shock,

Wednesday I believe it is today.
The day of the Turd Sandwich.
Antigone’s fiancé,

Haamon: I’d never urge you to show respect
for a criminal.

Are we not just toys in your hands, O Lord,
the bankers say all such diversions are irrelevant
and turn back to the Chart.
Hari Selden’s art perverted
to predict the rising of scum to surface,

they are replacing tomahawks today
transporting them over the seas
to come to rest in their metal cradles,

the snake in the New City
hisses not to turn around.
Poor Scribe!
taking down the father’s remarks,
wonders at the colors released
and hopes to appease Ra’s rage.

tears streaming down Circe’s flanks,
Odysseus hopes to sail against the wind--
Antigone longs for the divine
to lay her to sleep
to birth a quieter dream.

it may be
that in later years
he tended a roadside shrine
and sold his story for brass
distributive function.

I sway in such wind
the dogs would not eat the white bread
I forget which city I was in
or what the name of its gods were
their kings did what was wrong in the eyes
of the Lord.

up mode, Diana on overload,
a messy upper echelon
such that earthquakes rock the land
endless rain
on the island the cherries bloom
the veins filled with poison
in all the veins of the commonweal,

little recompense in such hard times,
for an agile thief the morning waned
bright blue,
his lover naked in his mind
rolling his eyes at what’s left of the world,
trinkets which do not do well in the marketplace,
and he does not care to take the white bread
that the dogs have left alone.

Section 97. In the wind lass,
best to find a corner where it does not hurry
the pages. anastomose, worm holes
the cherry blossom veins
the worst of envelopes stained with tears,
almost in the river, almost out.
awkward at abandoned redoubts,

the old poet wonders why the Emperor
should begrudge him his ruined hut
half way South Mountain. The Pilgrims
carry away the stones of the slip,
and install them one by one
when they reach the top. Selling
wisdom by the roadside
brings in little but cheese.
These men want gold
I have little of that.

hufpak, he was supposed to
pull on that rope if someone
was to come along.
I heard it from a friend.

all the way round here
Paris what? 1340 or so,
the poet burgles the monastery
got some gold, family bought
him from gallows sad songs
along wild streams
he looks around with a yawn
death so commonplace,
still the plague creeps,
and ice inches forward.
the Mongols toss their diseased across the walls,
the post tosses his chicken bone in the creek.
pillow is a stone, mebbe a bit of another song,
scansions to taste the membrane
already boiling.
always atop the pile burning--
the geni have removed the isthmus of the world
again,
and my remote.

Arcadia is a bit of a stretch
The Oligarchs still conspire,
unconcerned at your archaic patriotisms,

A new world order,
a hundred years if we’re blest,
last mad dictator. 250 at best,
given the unknown unknowns,
Gaia to keep the minions under control,
but floods only get worse, Diana
waxes with anger
& Circe worse stamping about
Earthshaker she wishes to be
and lately may have awakened him.

they say it is imitating Simon Magus in Judea
says Apollo, are they now Creators?
as are we all says Host.

the dispatch from the front
the old chief has unleashed his calvary,
the colonel in the white Mercedes
probably a double dominoe.

. Far Point Station..High school childs
shootin each other, young Messiahs
dying for the cause.
Moira on a vile course,
ambitious men, Anthony said.
before the carnage.

Coinage! Sir!
vain pursuit,
no sir, Ennui
the spleen polluted,
Emeralds conjured in the air,
halfway up the slope
clinging to the breath
of each lost word
for that bit of cheese
I see in your satchel there.

we have Minerva & the Galahad
to work out, even though we’ve not thought out
love & hate to any account.

I’ve time to orate on the matter
should you like to rest in the shade
while I organize the letters,
which I often do
as so it shall take but a moment
or years of notes.
We need to get it done, says Politician,
waggling a coin,

which only reminds me of the burly men.
I told them the tale. Married I the words
for a spell, and if paused the Lawyer
had a bit of wine.
sweet rumors to make the girls rose,
dire warnings so that they all quake
South Mountain sighs.

the gold will buy me days of cheese
and I can organize my notes.

the anguish of love tightens your throat
intones Apollo. It is a picture in a gloomy Gallery.
He adds. Reverent Sir and all that. “ …and would I could forget
the twilight of Beauty.”

as a conspirator
slantwise from lifething.
“Well I never! It says,
all holier than thou.

which I ain’t
Fortune being a varied spin,

IMF made the sky fall
who holds the leash
of the mesh men
spreading the creed:

bout the end of them anyway
ain’t it joe?
Leaves his card,
very continental, expresses his sympathies,
admired how his silver suit shoned
in Ra’s reflection
and He was affronted
and frowned.
I fear for your safety, Royal Holy Dude.
your looking cool tho--
the west is in catastrophic decline
Great efforts are being spent
in keeping the vineyards safe
but they have bones in lost lands
as a consequence
tom dooly might sing that song.

“We have gathered a sieve full of water.”~EP

several. spinning in the air,
such savage fireflies.

Appalling sky blossoms.
Routine.
America multiplied
as the Founders intended,

now we wait for our daughters
they said. and prepared the
ships to sail the seas of chaos
just as they have always done,

Ginsburg has the names & date
how the leaves brown in this open air

we should go inside.

maybe the plebes
will manage the maze,
climb thru the cube into the cube
as the desert spreads
Tiresias says the land must heal
come home, in several thousand years,
even more chastened by what u had to learn,
Minerva will not speak to him
they say. The angels said
this place is pleasant and they stayed,

the boy is bent on selling
they’ll say
and they would be right

Arches sway as Earthshaker wakes.
the hard shards of heathen rock.
O my. laughter of fleeing angels
as the ground crawls.
Scrolls drown in the surging sea
reclaimed by the Buddha once again
and lost the drift of history
a missing course in the strata,
unconnected Atlantis
which may blossom forth.
Hiram’s great grandads
who had defended the hill country
on the frontier. Savages were infrequent
and very curious,
after appearin fierce for a bit.
Arcadia, but with men in it.

Wonder what they did to piss off the gods so much?

The use of anti-gravity altered the magnetic field
and threw the whole planet off course, causing a global
warming. Massive floods, drowning and so forth
what did they learn moving stone.
How we should pray that we not find
these secrets out,
but since we know about the threads
& we thrill to the vibration
just as they do
when they come to order the common lands
confirm & pass on land, the leading men,
a towns man and a farmer

each in his turn to listen to the wizard.
tales out of mind.

“Woody,” says Buzz Lightyear,
don’t take it so hard.”
I once spent some time with
some fellows who were a billion years
older than us. among might be a better word.
I think I was there I believe.
“No, no. Not another quest
to retrieve the gold from the lost city!”

Emanation
stench of Styx
along the picket fence.
some years along
another caisson
khe-son on another page
Fortune is apt
to jump into the gap.
Arnault perhaps
straining at the chains
which the old man used
to bind him,
Liege to Prometheus
to make love free
surely that was light

true, antigone’s conflict is superseded by a more modern one,
compose yourself
you are disheveled.
don’t give me that pre-programmed bullshit,
tell me of the death of the owl,
too much maple syrup made him ill,
I’d wager

frakking now to be researched
back to the forties
the counter should be cleared off.
bright void underneath
the hollow magazine desires,
yearns to be handled
the prince prepares the stage,

as an arena, a bare square
& bow and do not stumble
in your invitation;

he will not interrupt
if you choose to invoke a diety,
much good may be done with a blessing.

weigh downed with a drunken owl
I shall make a sorry presentation
at the wizard’s academy.
Another pain pill, Hero,
more intensely than the Things
themselves said Rilke
who knew him well.

Besieged within the Citadel
hounds that padded through the stone halls
lacy to rough hands
hours to dawn over the fountain.

the real fight still with the prophet in the desert,
who seeks martyrs to send to heaven.
In the New City they have captured the serpent.
How patiently they wait for the Son,
however Gaia might choose to dress him up
to pimp Baal for another season.--Lucius Cornelius Sulla
brief but bright among the leaves
decays upon his estate
unconcerned about the fate of Rome.

Now.
says Apollo, you are in Paris,

free of so much woe,
Sherlock on the suitcase
Patch at the window
already you worry that she might get lost,

the winter in retreat

Them French boys will love her,
pretty as she is I said.

You just finish that poem
lisa says

But I’m distracted now.

the great city lay in the valley beyond the isthmus,
the archaeologists say there is nothing there.
Ocean rather than bridge between the lakes.
deluge, the mountains came tumbling town
and the lakes were married to the Sea.

The big convertible is parked across from some mobile home
a long time. Maybe it’s a shy lover,
liked to pine away for one reason or another,

the temporary king has informed the Senate,
they will reply we will need to find agreement
with tender words for all the old gold folks
who frolic in Cancun.
Sing the axis straight,
to do that, live in interesting times.
derive
from the old sheik who prefers orange and brown,
a tribal hand me down, his are mostly new
or have been, lately he’s been plagued by hawks
and other birds. Thing is, dignitas require he bend his knee,
but he just ain’t ready yet. Nor will
the king remove his curse.
Should the land sink into the sea.

someone u might magic out,

Circe. The Prince receives good report,
assailed upon all sides
the Companies are swollen with greed
ships ply every coast spreading disease.
Earthshaker is annoyed,

“to open eyes that are blind
to bring captives out of prison
out of the dungeons where they lay in darkness”

“Where is your God,” they ask me all day long.
Apollo says: You are ashamed when you catch yourself at prayer.

This is a stubborn gray
that haunts his days
holds spring at bay,
Apollo behind the clouds
stays away.
I can see Circe smile.

Frakked as we are
jammed implosive.

In the New city
the snake was found in an ingénue’s purse,
close to her breast she had kept it safe.

it was said she returned to the wild
it to captivity.

and the council of the holy ones exalts thy faithfulness.
Unconstitutional says Welch
tho he use more words,

Ms Slaughter suggests an amendment
that congress and the President not be paid during the Shutdown,
that will kill it for sure.

Mr. Adams asked for the sedition bill out of exasperation
the decline in decorum was intolerable,

the tan man might curse an obstinate few,
as he makes peace with the enemy.
The extinct newt sleeps with fishes,
72 virgins in paradise
martyred to lust for his homeland.
Caribou Barbie dusts & runs her mouth.
Apollo says,
the phoenix that self creating pyre veils all for an instant
with his glowing ashes.
No lines remain on that score.

Lisa says Uncle Ez is nosying round in the barn.
“I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped
from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened
her with insult.” Circe sniffs in her bear‘s-grease Latinity,
ambles round the corner of the world.

Parts & pieces litter the great field. --as though
an angry God had gone this ways,
perhaps so throughout the paradiso
it is so. Minoa lost for centuries,
shards all that’s left,
city of Ra, that the slaves built
lost in chaos.
which each of us have. Should anyone
ask. it is so.
thought it may be dependent on what
the meaning of “is” is to quote another great man.

people cannot go to the taverns
it destroys their way of life,
crime grows worse
boys get taciturn.

girls learn to knit through storms.
Montana I’m told it’s near Idaho.
Paradiso may flash from place to place--

the space of slow walk
were I an old man with a cane
in search of cherry blossoms.
the study of one star ends in a mad whirl,
Rimbaud lies bleeding in a filthy room,
maybe just too close to the poem at last,
the dark lords that demanded the magic,
satiated walk leaving him lost in the center.

Take the next node sir
certain accolades are reserved
the Paradiso is awash in wisdom,
says tom thumb
clambering about the ink well.
overbalanced by his Uncle’s feather.

cat slides shadow to shadow
tail flashing,
no uproar sitting at the railroad tracks
in a big blue convertible
on the way to an arena in Metropolis,
which might someday offer
an exhibit featuring Kandor.
Reset the New king says
as if the walls will just crumble away.

A peaceful end to the violence is sought,
third hand from Jesus to the angel
to the old man who lived in a cave,
out there where the Messiah went, paradiso.

God’s own truth
the rifles won’t chatter to a stop
plain as can be,
Gods’s own truth divided,

the aura in ultra blue,
the cloudie Van,

“sage he stood,
with atlantean shoulders fit to bear
the Weight of Mightiest Monarchies.”

Alexander cloned.
I oil the door on the hut,
so as not to startle the birds--
Spring birthing,
opening.

‘advised if this
be worth attempting or to sit in darkness here
hatching vain Empires” Rev John talking through
some other ass.

Such a pitiless gaze
O paradiso! The Persian beauty
does not lose her religion,
a one piece suit, and a sarong
in the bathing competition.

the young prince,
(great & terrible above all who stand about him)

will not wear his ring,
most will know he is married anyway.
Old Europe,
underneath the mannerisms
Theodora ringed by nymphs
daughter of a favored general
or a fat merchant who relocated from Tyre.
confirmed earlier suspicions
dating from the Afghan War,
(1838-1842)
when twenty thousand British
had died in the retreat from Kabul,

Easterlies wing out to sea
white seabirds
winter’s debri. Lover
wants a Dictaphone
to shout down systems;
the Roc brings Adam’s skull.
Aunt Sally cleans toilets in the Green Zone,
she plans to buy some land in Malibu.

Morning Lisa,
some French poet
says,
sitting inside my head
while in on the balcony
the stiff fellow
in the painting, proud
in my Sunday clothes.

come back inside she says
I’m cold.
An eloquent fashion,
postage stamp over the private bits,
then layers & layers of hot mud,

Ancient Veii! a throne stood in your Forum!
fornication upstairs in the inn,
fevered adulteries in the meadows
swaying golden rod.
Sing not Death
Paradiso ebbs & flows
the king looks on
while I chip at my tablet

the poem sails away
forth on the godly sea,
mundane whirlpool of the Ennui
the interruption of ejaculation
Raoul carries things away
heavy singularities like children
capering about the cart.
Lilith, in Circe’s red gown,
flits from shadow to bright sun.
surely a mother has slain her child,
an appeasement in the paradiso
an airy apartment across from the café.

tis clear the stingy moneylenders
do not like the New government,
they sit upon their gold like fat gnomes
who have stolen from the dwarves--
the builders have nothing to do
they study ancient texts
find mention of golden bowls
Hiram came out of Egypt
may have been Enoch all along.

The Angel in existence
another of the distant children
home being nearly everywhere,
the mad whorl of the Node
may alight anywhere for a moment,
a momentary unquiet in the Angel,

should it pass by. Return of such jazz lines,
riff off painted rectum
loud rouge in the ladies’ room
commercials interrupt flow
the top piece of the good thief’s cross
displayed by the priests for veneration.
minutes later we pick it up again,
the paper noticeably older

someone’s shit in the trumpet
running down the leg
vibration in the tide pool
Faust when He made the deal.
Elizabeth’s uncovered breasts
in the grainy film. Germane
to be busted with the Reverend
wine dyeing your red hair
somewhat darker
while the conditioner
is a melody for his grunts.
The old moonshiner
chips away his hardened mud,
puts the makers away till next fall,
few more seasons up the trail
to cook the corn.
Nearer my God to thee.
where is your province in the state of Man?
Persius asks.

wrong, wrong from the start
not the doing innocent heart,
he was but a student,
determined to bury the holy books
but always digging them up again
scattered fragments, of such frivolity
that Falstaff smiles and launches
into a chorus of ancient rhyme.
casual murder with the tomahawk
quiet office erupts. Boys splash
through a quiet stream
in dappled sunlight.
chump change
Li Po passes in a strange carriage
towards the city
the white towers glow
as to that it will be difficult
to lie in the grass
and watch the clouds.
I return to the papyrus in some disarray
my hair disheveled , how mad
the blossoms in the stray gale.
Fatima, say the rosary faithfully and heal the world.
the message left in the desert
reported that the shiek was fascinated by a white haired woman,
later, he went to the mountains for his health,
from the height he can see the Dead Sea.
The imperial roads are still in good repair
towards the City.

I have written to say I was too ill to travel
but the Prince has not replied,
I am to be cast into the madness
trolley to the city
to the examination rooms,

while we were all expecting the big clumsy bridge
to topple over and land in the chasm--

“now old tim Crane thinks he done something great
but I will beat him him.”

sam patch said over in Paterson.
the other day.

Maya got 36 but they lost
Mythic? of course.
Soldiers of whichever Faith,
Aye! I will die for thee,
as for love ah well
we know little of that
analogue glows pulses
into settled patterns
Jesus strokes
the anti toxin

Maybe Baby
we know it better than most of them dumb Christians.

Section 68. other words lanquish
in desperation, other worlds,
dash with a wild electricity
through decaying nodes,
thorium depleted

scika thrack. Red tide at sea.
Obliged to watch for omens.
mills to braid the wind.
the guild will yield the techman
for repairs throughout the realm.
says the prince.

Section 68. other words lanquish
in desperation, other worlds,
dash with a wild electricity
through decaying nodes,
thorium depleted

scika thrack. Red tide at sea.
Obliged to watch for omens.
mills to braid the wind.
the guild will yield the techman
for repairs throughout the realm.
says the prince.

when the nucleOr plant
burns down
all the lands turns browned
bright lights are dimmed
the wind whistles in El Dorado

Satan, in Milton mode,
reclines the wooden chair in a ruined room,
somewhat irritated at the pace of his command,

no wonder that they let General Fist
prosecute the Prophet’s priests,

first minister Gates
“tis bad to send legions into asia”
where you burn each hut
but only bleed each day.

while being backward in our eyes,
the tribal society has several attributes
of value to deadwood Civ.

The ancillary wars, brushwood,
that the fighters keep an eye on,
a certain level of population control,
in more fertile areas.
expectant angels in bright blue helmets

hand out water & corn
to be stolen by the nearest madman,

the Senators consult the Chart
assess such issues best left to priests,

Simon Magus angling for an army next week,
a new dress for the sacred ball
we are but children thrilled
by the blinking lights.

The Lady is prematurely gray
in the New city
the Prince calls every day
all the stators reside within her walls.
Tis said the Cheney burned her papers down,
foolish man, to save himself from shame.

“what other reason would there be?” says the man
on the telephone on the tv. Hoi! says the thief,
“pretzled pauper at the edge of the sea
aghast at the paradiso trembling”
an old tree in the saltmarsh
should even a light breeze stir--
Last pope so they say.

breathe no longer
than the kittens in the drowning bag,

Poem. The clatter of the buggy on the cobbles
fades. Should some notables visit the hut.
then go away.

Paradiso is unconcerned
that a minor minion
is displeased. The Will
of the All will be accomplished,

the pimps cry out for wild fluctuation
to be the law of the Land.
Like the boy who wanted to be a robot
I shall imitate the impassive angel,
Sam Patch says.
“Liar” says the thief.
I know him well enough the lover says
a tongue deep in her snatch.

verdant juice,
the Prince has found a ripple in the chart,
Hari Selden confirms a Time of Troubles lies ahead.
Sam Patch says he can put the bridge back on course

again.

Frakking would ease our minds, Adama says
leading Eve back inside out of the rain.
Pater Nostres. Dr. Williams may have said the same thing
him being a medical man. A whale endeavors to say hello
in the most beautiful way possible, this may take awhile,
the white crane will fly in and settle later,

---you
a poet (ridded)
from Paradise

a very dirty book indeed,
the kill team
or some other atrocity,
Satan enjoys being Caligula
then laughs when his toy is broken.
Corporal Morelock
was a bit mad they say
but most of them boys they got
scratch their ass in public
and not think about it a lot.

“common knowledge”
sgt. sd. The Samurai was given leave
to chastise the farmer,

but might postpone the penance
till after planting or harvest
the lieutenant is a Captain
another hero in the chain of command.

The Creation has turned against him,
they often will,
Osama was seen to rise & hover
aim & fire an arrow
and shot the predator down.
The Americans have it in HD.
It is very classified indeed
an exact reproduction is available
for 19.95

The operator hesitated
Kirk on the Farragut
Picard on the sea with Gilgamesh.
talking with scalawags along the Milk river,
exchanging the news.

Dying for Glory don’t need no help from Lucifer.
Sam Patch. Buttin in.

Congress got nothing to bitch about
so they praise a high school basketball season.
they coulda deregulated the Net
but they didn’t
“and the fleet at Salamis made with money lent by the state to the shipwrights”

The Chairman disagrees that his flowery introductions obstructs
the business of the committee stating that the public is well served to know the sterling colleagues with whom he now serves.

“we may look forward, then, to the possibility of large arrays
of silicon film photoelectric cells in sunny areas, producing vast quantities of electric current out of sunlight. This current will be used to electrolyze water, and produce hydrogen.”
1983.

Tiny little critters that live
in the disc player are quiet neighbors.
the wild birds wd not eat the white bread,
purloined altered
extended,

“Filth stank as in our day” Ez remarks
during a lull when we would feel
the hopeless senselessness,
weight of the spleen shifted
vehemence at its opening bid

from heart to mind
the spirit flees
Sam Patch in tow

counting the points in the paint
“come now,” says Ez
the poison in the dog food has been
stopped, but the jet planes are flying
apart, merry Darger in the other universe,
just over there.
says he dug the pitkin himself

Sam Patch he knew well
most all of them did back then.
all of them had a dog in the race
a speculation, Henry said
arm around Patch in the Moulin Rouge.

Hoi! this national paradiso
cannot be erased.
sub-sonic peel of Velcro ,
the release of oxygen.
toxic repressions of the Id,
Edsel in charge of Design.
the Bird blew bop
chopper on the wall,
attack design--
deep in the ruin
somewhere in Id;
We smear it as Jimbo’s Bob City
and move on

a massive delusion--

Michelangelo on the
floor, the table filled with designs
the golden light reflected
on the wisps of dust
apprentices on scaffolds
covered in paint.

A sad rower on the stream tonight,
commission for a Nobleman
short of verse
the extent of his malady
has robbed him of thought
and he lies nearly senseless
at the edge of his bed.

and what’s worse he’d rather be with his lover,
the angle of the pivot
my poor hammer dings the anvil
with a faint ping
in the raucous of the shop
sharp men spit in the direction of the spitoon--
Circe atop the bar legs crossed
at a dangerous angle.

“The neighbor might be a pervert,”
Lisa says,
“not that it matters to me”

chides me for my rather quiet joy
at the moment of matters,

this morning we learn that the Chinese
discovered cardboard
it remains to be seen what else.

Robonaut,
killed the video star;
adjusting nodes
on the mechanical bar.

“takes off her sweater, then her bra,
and then says, “lets ball, dig?” --
by which she means, let’s try
a new far out sound on the hi-fi. If
he reaches out to touch anything
other than the tone arm, she will say,
“your through, frantic boy. You
are sawed off.”

“Aha! she that was the gateway of the nations
is broken,
her gates swing open to me;
I grow rich, she lies in ruins.”

The archaeologist is working in a vaginal gouge,
he insists that it is virginal,
26 instances of similarity,

a violent ideation
further pinches a reversed man
on bruised knees
Holy holy holy
the cock bursts measures & seams
strains & accelerates

over the hump
seek no aggrandizement
mired in a poor man’s war,
some greens, an old robe,
quiet hours buried in the old parchments
love for its own sake scratched into odd characters,

Circe herself enraged at the masques
which fall into the sea below
her wind blown tattered robes
which still manage to conceal the swell of her breast.
Morning bursts over blue peaks
blurred eyes conceal tears
smoke rises on checkered plains.

How their faces shine in the hot sun
as they bury the high priest in the long trench
picks spark on the sandstone
ring between the words of psalm.

armed with a flimsy reed to hold the wind
his lover in Circe’s robes
pricks her palm
and rubs the blood into the old meat
they share

cool flesh under threatening sky--
they knew they were naked and sought fire

Try another book. break through the dry air
of the place. (the good doctor would have me
use the pitchfork to pile more corpses in the trench)
Li Po was certain he could find his way here,
why should he leave now, as deep as he was within her,
her breath fogged upon the window?

I should have said it certainly
the black blotch in the center of the nave,

“it will not last forever
against the long sea”
dredging up the old rower,
“wine dark sea,”
stench of the dead coughed up--

all is well if you can still taste blood
despite the apparitions
hold her ever more closely
even when alone:
Love will climb like ivy
and choke the fear,
let her be the furnace
the pebble & the leaf
the way things are
when you reach to silence the alarm.

Section 56. the new cafes are filled
with unnamed cadavers;
mild chocolate rivers,
rev Hagee preaches from San Antonio stage,
televised to the White Swallow Motel:
seed pours out of her cunt
rather than an envelope addressed
to the Ministry. Cold Earth
knows the destination of the delivery,

blood, chest high in the Jordan,
seven months to bury the dead.

I wonder if Gabriel knows the Blues
to play to a happy few
groveling at Jesus’ Knees
holy holy holy
says the magpie from ruined trees.
contrary to play dough the Elect
carry golden bricks to erect
the Temple of the Lord.
Heaven laid the world on me
the angel sings,
loading the souls of politicians & poets
hipsters & kings
whores & hobo’s
into Charon’s black boat
for the deepest dark part of the underworld,

Imagine the new lies they’ll create
balls sawed off & cunts sewn shut--
Hell, Lucifer’s Cd on repeat
a Cuban dictators endless spiel
in a darkened movie house
hot mud on the eyelids

Rev Hagee needs HD seed to stopper up his mouth
coat his teeth with gold to save you from this awful fate
so you can carry bricks for the temple of the Lord.
The Savior says it won’t be bad, once we free you from desire,

In the New City, gogs roam deserted streets,
and the saved don’t dream much of anything
blank eyes coated with dust under a hot sun.

such poems surmise
palpitate with lies
groan
mediate such sin as may be already present in the water,
winter’s piss etching the snow, saffron

the old man allows that Circe’s breath
will carve the drifts

sometimes there’s a bit of magic

all day relief from a cold
Mischief the boy said
when I asked him what he was up to
amazing what you already know
if you think about it some
embroiled in the aftermath of the flood.

too many reason in the soft mud,
“the foul fiend haunts poor tom in the voice of a nightingale”
loose soil churned up
torn by the Dragon’s new rain.

I would have the auburn smell as well
lingering about the new green
faint film of disturbed air
a raindrop
a bit of mold drapes another
in the fold of the rock
the roll of thunder & flash of Light.
fearful of must be falls asleep
at the edge of forever is a faint music
“but he who will work shall give birth to his own father“-

and exhausted wake to further labor;
such toil is breath, air modulated
grazes Circe’s hair
as if a poet dared be born
in her ruin.

The runes on the path
insist that the dragon is good Fortune
as the ascent to South Mountain begins
by holding his tail
you might navigate between the rabbit & boar
so it’s said in the shadow of the moor
by ancient sages who know such lore,

Circe’s lover will rush ahead
to gather a rare flower for her hair
only to discover darkness assembled

Sam Patch might strike the standing stones
to no avail
till the Light catches up if it ever does.
If she loves him
he might find her with her hand between her legs
a wet fire falls into a shining pool

if not
Morrigan will eat his dream
demons will cast his seed in barren land
and he will feed on corpses
upright & rotted on the dead trails.
the words may ring discordant
stale
in that path towards the grail.

South Mountain is a dangerous place
says the Pastor in his sermon
surrounded by artificial flowers
and wires.

.

Section 111. the arc of testimony, an alchemist
flirts with the sun breath upon wave
context of memory turning down leaves in a library
stab spilled words that the Republic finds needless,

or worthless. out of the Light the magic infants speak,
incessant rain, gray towers, wet mist matting their hair
the separation of their tears consuming the last years,
old bones embarked upon holy war

gutters gleaned of leaves,
evidence of their innocence
expunged
unart lilies displayed in chipped vases
they who would have written the silence,
the night, who would have startled
the frenzies in their flight
tiny fists grab stars

as it must be understood anew each time
wrenched from flower & seed
the crops have a human taste
in the craters where the babes are lain

old fires smolder against their light

“Child! Child! Child! Where are you
Amid the smoke that crawls upon the ground?
Tyger tyger burning bright”

Sweating, blood thighed Circe
crosses the plank
notices the bits of flesh
that cling to the side of the ditch as if alive.
Section 973. begins a slow migration to the vanished point,
it’s a harlequin he sees at the end of the procession,
most of the rest just savage stabs of paint
wire droops parallel from tall towers
the wind is sensed from outside,
odd that the Paradiso resides from point to point
like a bus ride
most is the rigging hands busy with knots
& loops mashed gluons trampled over groins
trapped by the carpets where residuals lie
champagne in hand butterfly high
in ash blond dye “the reference is a distraction,”
she lied, “the obvious analogy is with music,
which extends beyond the figure which the space
occupies,”

little toes depict escapades
these too expose woes
the patter of words explode
on the Company walls

Meanwhile, the cat
opens & closes the bathroom door
el camino real
all of which is to say the harlequin
is not entirely inside
the stench which the perfume hides
no matter in which room the cries are heard.

‘and him all ready to rewrite history
should a footnote present itself’

Tinkerbelle is humpty-dumpty on the wall
roundabout,
the big people digging everything inside out
they can’t see her outside in they’re not
not that the whirly stops
even if they are tying with knots
all along the line. Bedlam busy with busses,
chuck & upchuck, crosstown-
Bellevue beatitudes
stern crusaders with whisky breath
batons at the ready
if the story should end untold
George says,
who fingers the rosary
paints superman on an old rail fence
his cape draped delicately
over the bluebells and ask me nots
brand new you.
brain bots clean the pathways,

surely there is no magic
in the basket of apples
chaos carries through the woods
for these people are new
even their dead living
ablaze jazz nerves in improvisation

Li Po stares through the window
at incessant rain,
Circe her hair wild
races the cold wind
the poet sketches a quick portrait of the singularity
Rorschach storms steady light the boil of black
toil & trouble, the calm witches weave
mauve into scarlet into green,

a place for sacrificial offerings
the light came to be one
Teresa thighs wide
fluid drips on the concrete
that her bare feet have scraped.
the mold writhes upon the rock
rippling in cold space,

in the interval
the sector of Paradiso allotted
excited flesh plots
to wipe the rain from Circe’s eyes
comb her wet hair
quiet her questing thighs--

Mute Apollo, small boy to be born
dressed in blue paint
who is it that asks the question?

Section 110. “ Mondrian was also dismayed
by van Doesburg’s introduction of the diagonal line into his work which he viewed as a breech of Neo-plastic principles. He withdrew his support from De Stiyl, explaining to van Doesburg “after your arbitrary correction of Neo-Plasticism, any collaboration, of no matter what kind, has become impossible for me.”

Are you asleep, all the what in that which is curled smoke
round the bleeding bed? Each local “thing”
babes in dirty towels twinkling
on the bent street, or in exclusion
grand dreams that drag you about the execution stone,

blood under light. the culled tyger
of this paradiso, polyglot
with dulled cloak
scraped by dry bramble
drool an elixir
for the under weaned
who have plucked “it”
until the strings no longer ring.

I stands bickering with itself
on the stage with I speaks
of longs for itself
mind the staircase’s descent
doesn’t spirit away the toys;

me go town
under clouds the predators fly
as Circe plies the keys
a hurried etude
for a gaunt weary paradiso.

“Poured we libations unto each the dead”

until the desert overflowed with broken cups.

section 110. I, as one thing, a nice quiet paradiso-
foment in the notes; nothing’s finished, half bleemed
says the scribe in Ur
Sam Patch in the backyard
sees rust on the wheelbarrow
arms full of potted flowers
he walks down to the river
ever unstill
to plant a garden around the juniper
fulcrum. Leaping fawn breaks from thicket,
the old dog won’t scour no more,
old compacts lay rolled in the reed buckets--

back up the hill. The mines hereabouts
have been bled dry says the old man
damned old horse been dead all day
and nobody got a notion how to move
it off the road and into the shade
so the flies can have a good meal.

same with the malaise in the bones
nerves too tired to twist ‘em anymore
eyes got a bloodworm
everything an old movie
movin too fast to catch anything
about the life underneath the heroic.

text of which is,
Sam in a yellow Toyota
late for the Pepsodent commercial
in which he kisses resplendent Dawn
who must go home and be beaten
by the cad that she married
text of which is says the Director
after twenty takes
perfect at union scale.
all along the river
the candy wrappers dance.

I want to steal your poem cause I liked the way
you fornicated with that girl in Section 43
I can only adulterate with mine
since I am very sinful and wear a red cardinal’s hat
and sleep in the very bed in which you did all that.

Anyway I sleep too much and mumble crossly
at my old fashioned tv when the info-babes
tell me what I should think & eat marbly
the deafening cry of their adulterations
munchy pilfering their apple pies
all of which would be in line with perfect makeup
fabric pressed by breasts and goat like thievery
from institutions that would like to be possessed

blind wise color saturated by red white & blue
heaped upon Catastrophes anti strophes
the chorus chanting such debt ridden blues
azure seas the albatross round my neck
Electra flat upon the steaming deck
streaming poetry anti Christ from the Messiah complex
that spins the electrons into the boson’s mate.

In all likelihood, the Doctors will examine me
for toadstool mushroom filigree, theft
being an aberration and not a delivery
tho I would beg to disagree. Noodled
they will say examining the model of Byzantium
erected in the bathtub,

hereafter, I will edit banging the buck
to eighteen cents of present value--
either way I will endeavor to pick shit with the chickens
and file for divorce from the vile girl that I married;
O, Rosalind.

even if I have to write it down
it’s easier to steal it than birth it in a dark cloakroom
somewhere in dark Europe from which all filthiness
ascends and like a schoolboy
drawing nudes my erection
bursting all my seams appreciates
even in my old age, a cracked egg
leaking through all the nights & days
of some old Chinese poet who died way before me
in the arms of one of the daughters of Heaven.

At present I await the arrival of my Adulteress
in such wise that we will proceed to sinfulness
baking Laws as Zeus did with Leda
and jesus with Mary Magdalene
Love gets jism all over the bed
electric candles flicker carelessly
as I am forbidden an open flame
and solemnly I create one with my tongue

birth of language in the aperture
anguished grunts as the cats look on
poem dirt on the rug distasteful
to the Right that homogenizes
rainy day girls with wet breasts
while sticking their beasts into dykes
screwwise donkeys trained in the Coliseum’s shadow,

Generally, film at eleven
since the starlets are in love with themselves
after Fashion dissolving into wet cream & leather.
a perfect proof of grand theft
since the very air is filled with the undercurrent
Lilith on top of Adam shitfire chasing her out of Eden
so he could boss Eve.
datum de da da rivulets
a perfect pool of insurrection, goddamn tagged dead bodies
poled across the canal to St. Mark’s square
rigid monks pour ash from the sacred oak
everyone’s hope for Armageddon dashed for another day
my own theft just a footnote
tacked to the end of your long poem
pissed and moaned to the hereabouts
spit out on the linoleums of a thousand kitchenettes
designed by Sears & Roebucks after the great War
entitled the pleasures of piece
or how to remove the cum stains
on a gentleman’s white underwear,

for the most part the animal is bricked up
lest wondering eyes should appear on the window ledge
the vestal lady is brittle you should know
her vessel hidden under her white robes
the poem itself gored by endless fare thee wells
shit itself baking under a hot sun.

A reasonable return on raw sewage is all that is required
a fashionable equipage a certain worth
to have the words pour forth
Falstaff on Steroids old Will’s death cough
something to forestall the foetid air’s descent
something legal left to steal, as death in life
dream’s montage the Other in the mirror
stealing you moment by moment
a hard wire sizzling in the background
panting with derision
as the spoils are decided.

Section 17. The stolen poem is diurnal,
daily replayed in other words. the victim
was unaware of that, idly pounding the fresh
flesh with a round stone, she may be rearranged
to fit the edge of the age, no more shopping downtown,
the sewage is cooked, basted with yeats
I hang upon her tits in the after ward
between trees on the old farm
the poem upon tomorrow will outlast the meager harvest

regurgitate the dated syntax, mutant fish,
babies with three legs and large brain
most of which is mush
in the evenings teach the robots to sing
they seem resistant to the Message
preferring their own salvation
Alice could be rearranged, think of it as notes
although even I am not certain of the contents
eyeing the bone pile for omens
mute over her breasts as I would be an alien sky.

silly man she quotes the hydrant phallic
in the vast sea of concrete pissed pink
by the passersby. Quick heat that dies
what will we do buy batteries she intones
and insists I try again mote in the damaged air
best not to wander off
the vowels may be scraped upon the intestines

nymph nodes function and redress
we rarely see our own dawn-
coitus in Pompeii or Atlantis
1340’s saw the plague and an ice age,
Villon robbed the college of its gold
we must be wary of shadows
put your hand down there again

a novel containing songs
chaste with innocent love
the execution is always tomorrow
learned friars in damp halls
weighted with the law
Villon scratches his diurnal on the wall,

forbidden texts
texture of the flesh
brutes shadow the blind
I could wank continuously were it not for the explosions
and age, meager in ascendancy I dance
muffled between those breasts
she bends to tie the laces of her shoes
her buttocks exposed to our turbulent air,

nipples brightened foreshadow
an ambulance roars by
aside the automatic function
normalcy amid the colored lights,

I am not privy to these systems
nights of ethics dismantled
am I not to eat this pear
these parted thighs opened to this air
or as Solomon declared
this ripened fruit

Villon in his cell is apt to be hung
upside down till his balls
migrate to his lungs
the angelus rung at midnight in the starry sky
her moans confide
old Will that coughed & died
let her shudders decide---

even the best thieves are caught
word bags bulging
pregnant with bungling symbols
Circe’s breasts caught upon his lips
beside the poet’s pool
nymphs but reflection in the quiet water,
her fingers in his hair
Prometheus stealing fire

Paris with his arm round Helen
sea spray delicate on her white arms
first sin may stay the stones.

Section 19. is a dangerous place, irrational exuberance,
samewhere the roads loathe round Ethics,
lest breasts escape a golden zipper, darling theft,
in the same breath she may renounce her lover
dress in soft fabrics that shield her from his rough hands

talks to the white room while he smokes. the castle is
in disrepair nearly rubble after almost round the moat
her mystery goes white mist dampens her hair

between commercials the screen door slaps
adept as he is in the dream
he stumbles at the edge of the Tarpeian Rock
fierce smash of the sea below
Catullus would rather suffer with broken soul
his balls wracked between the hammer & anvil
hat in hand in her anteroom
working his words in lines that advertise her disrepute
his magnitude diminished
courted his sorrow
blasphemed within the verse

“there has always been this clamor, there has always been this furor.”

another passer-by, the lucid terror of her tear
oh, but solitudes tremble
since the hand touches nothing overmuch.

she. such tender bread, wanted nothing to do with a poet
how would she know if he were not a thief
tender in her oval room.

Section 2. allows a beginning, a lover
who mourns her dead and returns to the fields,
the shadow king deposed
the iron fist closed which has ripped the flowers
from the black lands,

the wheel rebuilt
as the hands become callous once again
lest the thief should stray from beauty
the grind of minute gears
in the blood,
long years since the waterfall became the Goddess
and drifted through the damp pines
the metallic voice upends the heart.
He comes to shore amid the pyres
in the rain smoke covers sky
uneasy at the face’s swirl.

who can see over South Mountain?
picking through the debris
the stray word plucked from blackened
papyri
Da all that’s left to build upon,
he so late that the tomb yawns.
a ragged priest cautions misinterpretation
“you who pluck the strings of the Lute
and invent musical instruments like David”
and further he intones
“Aha! she that was gateway of the nations
is broken
her gates swing open to me;
I grow rich, she lies in ruin.”

the mutation from fresh thorium,
O, magic elixir!
How varied thou art,
an old widow who glows
her late love at rest in leaden paint,
his old chest silver against his stiff tie
his polished angel asleep on his lapel.

nonetheless, the thief would not regress
a golden dome must always rest
upon some holy crest,
it is some weary at times, caleb remarked
from out the dark and all at once
but he went back to sleep
right thereafter
and might not recollect.

modern quite, nodules,

seems like something oughta be important
most probably ain’t

Kubla Khan in far ago gold
robed
setting forth to tour his citadels
my styles too poor I must admit it.
Poor thief.
He sets out to comfort his lands
the clerk decides
the auguries consulted for tradition’s sake
and doves released on each of his days of departure-

Pompey in Spain. the banks sucking out the mud.
Now the lion lays with the lamb
and tornados paw the ground
Unhappy Circe wakened on such a savage morn.

But that’s not our concern at the moment
sprung from all these other minds
coalescing red meat
hot in the Soul’s heat;

carry me not old fool
to that very last condition
ah, well patience with penitents
would serve the Force well
I would wager we were godless
about then,
round here

[slinging baseballs
in the cow pasture
like you desired
the universe only mildly endless.

Some of the wise guys even less.
As time would show
the cathedral a tourist trap
that everyone wishes to sow,

perhaps we forget to leave
Hardly remembering we’ve arrived]
ah, sacred cold stone,
the ritual for knapping
riding the earthquake in Tokyo
time echo

Our hero, oh Pushkin,
you old feind, has now struck green,
has reached the entrance

rushed up the palace stair
impatient almost past endurance,
he runs his fingers through his hair.

Thesis is a blank section,
the Wall replied,
politely gently pointing out grammer aerros.
st. Theo got a new bridge
in the old Duke’s bequest
cash of course
mostly free labor
a bit of bread
some brass coins

might try that the old man thought
mostly everything goes through the temple
and the moneylenders,
alas that that last

where passing notes amidst the thronging
array’s not difficult at all,
the nun carried that cue stick pointer
like a sword--

Yes, Lisa,
the little red first in the second row
we never once had to crawl under our desks
since the energy of the nun
would foil any fearsome attacks,
Anne, Mary’s mother
is a saint because of the that--

oh, little feet , are you extolling
the spingtime verdant flowers yet

Pushkin whispers from the shadows
both of us getting teary eyed
at the layers of mush
we had to endure,
the cleansing of the Ardennes
still whispers on the wind
both ways I reckon.

a new section, in the galactic file,
I am not privy to such keys
but heard it here and there,

The history is minicube & half,
literature half a cube,
storage one cube per annum
otherwise filed under temporary
and subject to economic conditions.

My grandpap was there for 8000 years
got drowned in a big flood
rest of the family fell off
from there
drifted back to civilization.

those are the feet that I adore
and think of daily more & more

says Pushkin,
unaware of more recent history
and I ain’t never told anything I swear,
he’s just nosy is all.

I told him
Orestes could stand in Hamlet’s shoes,
He just shrugged. being in a library.
Nother thief most likely. People gazing
wild imaginings. best there is he said,
a cube on my own
but that ain’t likely
given a rapidly expanding universe.
ego shrivels like an old man’s penis after coitus.
Since we are halfway up or down as the case may be.

The guide for our tour to day is Alexander puskin
There U Satisfied?
U don’t get paid you know
since you’re just a ghost
twinned with our Holy Host.

I think I insulted him.
He ain’t no gunslinger

or he got bored
I would have.
Lisa might say he was sweet
and I was mean
and that won’t improve my mood
everything downtown will be automated,
the matrix inviolate,
Circe does not share
which Ceres does not understand,
no doubt there’s a feud in heaven
an unruly daughter with a torn dress.

Yes. I thought you’d understand
Ceres thinks he’s a baby,
Circe opts for thief.

I would dicker for his next word out the can, I would source it to transportation. Health is always good, but not everything’s allowed.

Can’t rhyme civilisation
what would Mogadishu say
fission my cannon away
The Scotsman’s shot the Captain’s beagle.
of course, that’s just the beginning of his woes,
coarse as that is it might be sourced to transportation
that he was still alive to Health. Being
an admiral would be swell
I’d wear a big hat.

I am not insane. as a snap judgment,
like if I was interviewing me
I’d say he’s not crazy,
I suspect the ward is full.

Put it down to passing radiation,
a certain marker for the age,

in the interval of a lack of a dominant species
it was opened to colonization, Spain a likely shore.
surely they said we must start somewhere.

Section 41. Google world,
less or greater divides,
whale on a surfboard,

At sea in the constant turmoil
the old sea goose attached
rolled & battered
beaten on beam & post,

one of them mighta been a thief,
or the most loyal member of the king’s court,
unctuous with a dismissive air,
Come therefore and consort in long imagined love.
tardy Spring
jet set spits barbituates,
the stream turns
outlines Circe’s breast
and it stays cold
the shutters shriek
the old scribe with black nose
cackling in the night
pleased now and again by a phrase,
the emperor on elba
compassionate Circe
contrives
to loose all laws,

Legion repuked by Jesus
re-awakes races to oblivion
out of wind. Perhaps
he’s older now
more at home
at ease in tank or airship.
The thief too small to smash
as long as he is not in the way.

A blur Arthur
just out of the corner of the eye

Rouged Circe
surrounded by gray mist--
I’ve no penance, save remorse
for my actions
which would have happened anyway
canon laid down
Canaan saw the goddess drown.
a band of Zealous priests,
from hill town to hill town
beggars that lived for the god
that made his home on Zion.
the chief priest at Jerusalem
received lands containing olives & grapes
wives are offered
he has fine suns,
priests after Levi
and they lusted for the faith,
punished the idols
and took the girls
as handmaids for the Lord.
Baal is often killed his wife a widow.
el-shaddai mounts her and begets Baal
in the spring at lambing time.

the widening spin of the gyre
the center that did not hold
in this suite crows on a wire--
the temporary king
slain and reborn
Distracted by a difficult chief--
proud in his robes
proscribed & under seige--
while far from that frontier
towns burn.

at home,

JA “It must be great perverseness and depravity in any, who can
represent the late actions of the government, and the necessary
measures of self defense taken by congress, as a coalition with
Great Britain. It may be useful, however, to analyze our ideas
upon this subject.”

governors apt to prey rather than shepherd
di magne, horriblilem et sacrum libellum!
quem tu scilicet ad tuum catullum!
Ah! Cruel Love
Tom off to the pier
having tried his luck
in the grand casino
just to watch the wheel go round
and blink at the colored lights,
Ancestor, from a distance
it may be a child’s toy
up close it may prove to be an unripe melon
Don Corleone in the backyard
with his grandson.
JA: An ardent enthusiasm, indeed,
deluded for a long time
too many of our worthy citizens.

the most ardent angels seem
to crow the loudest
all along the wire.
the king has set this day aside to read
and sign documents,
but the air has turned foul
and the cattle are dying.
Merlin could lift stones.
Tis said.

Winter won’t release its hold
under the clouds his house is gray.
the soulutrian spreading inland
when the comet hit the icepack
& blew up the world.
Atlantis may be in Spain,
a young city in the scheme of things
the Egyptians said.
just something else he’s thinking about
sometimes. Pierre is keen to have a war.
Old John Bull turned a killer loose
and got burned. Livid as 3D is--
ministers in undignified repose.

JA: I therefore animated this nation to war,…
but was desirous of sending them by another means.

He is loathe to leave his cabin,
they fire the chopper only after he’s installed,
and secure,

the real fight still with the prophet in the desert,
who seeks martyrs to send to heaven.
In the New City they have loosed a serpent.
How patiently they wait for the Son,
however Gaia might choose to dress him up
to pimp Baal for another season.--Lucius Cornelius Sulla
brief but bright among the leaves
decays upon his estate
unconcerned about the fate of Rome.

Jimmy went to Cuba this week
said he was going to talk to Raoul
the old war jackknifed
to the middle of the door
someone at the looms making flags.
The Prophet glows white hot
the year Circe’s tit warmed the North.

Section 9. the white frigate orders our
forces to stand down or be destroyed,
ether electrified
the aura Of Electra
suffuses the wind
yet we will stand firm
chores to accomplish she says,

Abandon Avalon
dirty clothes & garbage bags,
the treaty with the Orions will have to wait.

In the manual, Artemis is bewitching,
bed of the forest a soft lawn
not a dirty carpet
and disheveled bed
whose feet have wiggled a hole,
in response to our revels

tho Lisa being reserved might not
realize
the arc of her curve sometimes.

She is not adverse to my murder of rhyme
indeed joins me & Verlaine
in the crime. should we not
appear & disappear
in the king’s shadow
within our separate existence
now and then entwined--
as for those young poets
lately frozen in the mechanical heart
this was has been
is closed.
Thy own golden arc yet to be delivered
tiny fist up, defiant to the past word.

in this cell
we will keep wickedness
even tho it leaks out
farms disease through the floorboards
foil it with Love
lets say
but who sells it cheaply
in the cubicles
between the white lines
not such as when sheep’s clothes
was out of season
a brief candle of wisdom,

Walt as a boy on the farm
and everybuddy took a bit of freedom
save the slaves I bet
how now that scar
tip of the whip striking in hot sun
burned by the coarse sand
our sad faces creased
at the curse in genesis--

outloud
speeches may be outlined in the anticipation
of the crisis
Mother at work in the office
will automatically dial up current details
and be available for all occasions
Even if Mrs. Barty got her beauty shop burned down.

The outline of the section may be expanded,
hands chopped. Dante in dancing shoes
ever eager for a tour.

Guarding the peace
the First Terran Army
launches tomahawks
deep into the desert.
We are informed that the attacks were successful,
when the Corporate team is landed,
negotiations will be expedited.

the long slow slide
to the breakdown of the world,
spine cracked
South Mountain deformed
flowers covered by the slip,

my cough leads to retching
so I do not dare to eat a pear

given the efficiency of fusion,
the reducing ray would be cheap enough for tourists
to visit the tiny city of Kandor. It would be an economic jolt
to the old town’s economy

but Ra is angry,
and may
the watchful Fathers say
send fire
to scorch and blast the Earth,

at such times the chariots are useless
and Pharoah will not send them forth,

learn war quickly he tells the desert folk,

Ra dances with Diana. Write such Death
as I tell you she says upon a blood morning,
the banker explains,
population is a problem, but labor is cheap,

the procter concluded
he was not pure
Li Po sets the bucket down
20 minutes down into the mine
and hours yet to go.

The vase is broken
translated from the Japanese
as something far greater,

how some babies
inhabit shock,

Wednesday I believe it is today.
The day of the Turd Sandwich.
Antigone’s fiancé,

Haamon: I’d never urge you to show respect
for a criminal.

Are we not just toys in your hands, O Lord,
the bankers say all such diversions are irrelevant
and turn back to the Chart.
Hari Selden’s art perverted
to predict the rising of scum to surface,

they are replacing tomahawks today
transporting them over the seas
to come to rest in their metal cradles,

the snake in the New City
hisses not to turn around.
Poor Scribe!
taking down the father’s remarks,
wonders at the colors released
and hopes to appease Ra’s rage.

tears streaming down Circe’s flanks,
Odysseus hopes to sail against the wind--
Antigone longs for the divine
to lay her to sleep
to birth a quieter dream.

it may be
that in later years
he tended a roadside shrine
and sold his story for brass
distributive function.

I sway in such wind
the dogs would not eat the white bread
I forget which city I was in
or what the name of its gods were
their kings did what was wrong in the eyes
of the Lord.

up mode, Diana on overload,
a messy upper echelon
such that earthquakes rock the land
endless rain
on the island the cherries bloom
the veins filled with poison
in all the veins of the commonweal,

little recompense in such hard times,
for an agile thief the morning waned
bright blue,
his lover naked in his mind
rolling his eyes at what’s left of the world,
trinkets which do not do well in the marketplace,
and he does not care to take the white bread
that the dogs have left alone.

Section 97. In the wind lass,
best to find a corner where it does not hurry
the pages. anastomose, worm holes
the cherry blossom veins
the worst of envelopes stained with tears,
almost in the river, almost out.
awkward at abandoned redoubts,

the old poet wonders why the Emperor
should begrudge him his ruined hut
half way South Mountain. The Pilgrims
carry away the stones of the slip,
and install them one by one
when they reach the top. Selling
wisdom by the roadside
brings in little but cheese.
These men want gold
I have little of that.

hufpak, he was supposed to
pull on that rope if someone
was to come along.
I heard it from a friend.

all the way round here
Paris what? 1340 or so,
the poet burgles the monastery
got some gold, family bought
him from gallows sad songs
along wild streams
he looks around with a yawn
death so commonplace,
still the plague creeps,
and ice inches forward.
the Mongols toss their diseased across the walls,
the post tosses his chicken bone in the creek.
pillow is a stone, mebbe a bit of another song,
scansions to taste the membrane
already boiling.
always atop the pile burning--
the geni have removed the isthmus of the world
again,
and my remote.

Arcadia is a bit of a stretch
The Oligarchs still conspire,
unconcerned at your archaic patriotisms,

A new world order,
a hundred years if we’re blest,
last mad dictator. 250 at best,
given the unknown unknowns,
Gaia to keep the minions under control,
but floods only get worse, Diana
waxes with anger
& Circe worse stamping about
Earthshaker she wishes to be
and lately may have awakened him.

they say it is imitating Simon Magus in Judea
says Apollo, are they now Creators?
as are we all says Host.

the dispatch from the front
the old chief has unleashed his calvary,
the colonel in the white Mercedes
probably a double dominoe.

. Far Point Station..High school childs
shootin each other, young Messiahs
dying for the cause.
Moira on a vile course,
ambitious men, Anthony said.
before the carnage.

Coinage! Sir!
vain pursuit,
no sir, Ennui
the spleen polluted,
Emeralds conjured in the air,
halfway up the slope
clinging to the breath
of each lost word
for that bit of cheese
I see in your satchel there.

we have Minerva & the Galahad
to work out, even though we’ve not thought out
love & hate to any account.

I’ve time to orate on the matter
should you like to rest in the shade
while I organize the letters,
which I often do
as so it shall take but a moment
or years of notes.
We need to get it done, says Politician,
waggling a coin,

which only reminds me of the burly men.
I told them the tale. Married I the words
for a spell, and if paused the Lawyer
had a bit of wine.
sweet rumors to make the girls rose,
dire warnings so that they all quake
South Mountain sighs.

the gold will buy me days of cheese
and I can organize my notes.

the anguish of love tightens your throat
intones Apollo. It is a picture in a gloomy Gallery.
He adds. Reverent Sir and all that. “ …and would I could forget
the twilight of Beauty.”

as a conspirator
slantwise from lifething.
“Well I never! It says,
all holier than thou.

which I ain’t
Fortune being a varied spin,

IMF made the sky fall
who holds the leash
of the mesh men
spreading the creed:

bout the end of them anyway
ain’t it joe?
Leaves his card,
very continental, expresses his sympathies,
admired how his silver suit shoned
in Ra’s reflection
and He was affronted
and frowned.
I fear for your safety, Royal Holy Dude.
your looking cool tho--
the west is in catastrophic decline
Great efforts are being spent
in keeping the vineyards safe
but they have bones in lost lands
as a consequence
tom dooly might sing that song.

“We have gathered a sieve full of water.”~EP

several. spinning in the air,
such savage fireflies.

Appalling sky blossoms.
Routine.
America multiplied
as the Founders intended,

now we wait for our daughters
they said. and prepared the
ships to sail the seas of chaos
just as they have always done,

Ginsburg has the names & date
how the leaves brown in this open air

we should go inside.

maybe the plebes
will manage the maze,
climb thru the cube into the cube
as the desert spreads
Tiresias says the land must heal
come home, in several thousand years,
even more chastened by what u had to learn,
Minerva will not speak to him
they say. The angels said
this place is pleasant and they stayed,

the boy is bent on selling
they’ll say
and they would be right

Arches sway as Earthshaker wakes.
the hard shards of heathen rock.
O my. laughter of fleeing angels
as the ground crawls.
Scrolls drown in the surging sea
reclaimed by the Buddha once again
and lost the drift of history
a missing course in the strata,
unconnected Atlantis
which may blossom forth.
Hiram’s great grandads
who had defended the hill country
on the frontier. Savages were infrequent
and very curious,
after appearin fierce for a bit.
Arcadia, but with men in it.

Wonder what they did to piss off the gods so much?

The use of anti-gravity altered the magnetic field
and threw the whole planet off course, causing a global
warming. Massive floods, drowning and so forth
what did they learn moving stone.
How we should pray that we not find
these secrets out,
but since we know about the threads
& we thrill to the vibration
just as they do
when they come to order the common lands
confirm & pass on land, the leading men,
a towns man and a farmer

each in his turn to listen to the wizard.
tales out of mind.

“Woody,” says Buzz Lightyear,
don’t take it so hard.”
I once spent some time with
some fellows who were a billion years
older than us. among might be a better word.
I think I was there I believe.
“No, no. Not another quest
to retrieve the gold from the lost city!”

Emanation
stench of Styx
along the picket fence.
some years along
another caisson
khe-son on another page
Fortune is apt
to jump into the gap.
Arnault perhaps
straining at the chains
which the old man used
to bind him,
Liege to Prometheus
to make love free
surely that was light

true, antigone’s conflict is superseded by a more modern one,
compose yourself
you are disheveled.
don’t give me that pre-programmed bullshit,
tell me of the death of the owl,
too much maple syrup made him ill,
I’d wager

frakking now to be researched
back to the forties
the counter should be cleared off.
bright void underneath
the hollow magazine desires,
yearns to be handled
the prince prepares the stage,

as an arena, a bare square
& bow and do not stumble
in your invitation;

he will not interrupt
if you choose to invoke a diety,
much good may be done with a blessing.

weigh downed with a drunken owl
I shall make a sorry presentation
at the wizard’s academy.
Another pain pill, Hero,
more intensely than the Things
themselves said Rilke
who knew him well.

Besieged within the Citadel
hounds that padded through the stone halls
lacy to rough hands
hours to dawn over the fountain.

the real fight still with the prophet in the desert,
who seeks martyrs to send to heaven.
In the New City they have captured the serpent.
How patiently they wait for the Son,
however Gaia might choose to dress him up
to pimp Baal for another season.--Lucius Cornelius Sulla
brief but bright among the leaves
decays upon his estate
unconcerned about the fate of Rome.

Now.
says Apollo, you are in Paris,

free of so much woe,
Sherlock on the suitcase
Patch at the window
already you worry that she might get lost,

the winter in retreat

Them French boys will love her,
pretty as she is I said.

You just finish that poem
lisa says

But I’m distracted now.

the great city lay in the valley beyond the isthmus,
the archaeologists say there is nothing there.
Ocean rather than bridge between the lakes.
deluge, the mountains came tumbling town
and the lakes were married to the Sea.

The big convertible is parked across from some mobile home
a long time. Maybe it’s a shy lover,
liked to pine away for one reason or another,

the temporary king has informed the Senate,
they will reply we will need to find agreement
with tender words for all the old gold folks
who frolic in Cancun.
Sing the axis straight,
to do that, live in interesting times.
derive
from the old sheik who prefers orange and brown,
a tribal hand me down, his are mostly new
or have been, lately he’s been plagued by hawks
and other birds. Thing is, dignitas require he bend his knee,
but he just ain’t ready yet. Nor will
the king remove his curse.
Should the land sink into the sea.

someone u might magic out,

Circe. The Prince receives good report,
assailed upon all sides
the Companies are swollen with greed
ships ply every coast spreading disease.
Earthshaker is annoyed,

“to open eyes that are blind
to bring captives out of prison
out of the dungeons where they lay in darkness”

“Where is your God,” they ask me all day long.
Apollo says: You are ashamed when you catch yourself at prayer.

This is a stubborn gray
that haunts his days
holds spring at bay,
Apollo behind the clouds
stays away.
I can see Circe smile.

Frakked as we are
jammed implosive.

In the New city
the snake was found in an ingénue’s purse,
close to her breast she had kept it safe.

it was said she returned to the wild
it to captivity.

and the council of the holy ones exalts thy faithfulness.
Unconstitutional says Welch
tho he use more words,

Ms Slaughter suggests an amendment
that congress and the President not be paid during the Shutdown,
that will kill it for sure.

Mr. Adams asked for the sedition bill out of exasperation
the decline in decorum was intolerable,

the tan man might curse an obstinate few,
as he makes peace with the enemy.
The extinct newt sleeps with fishes,
72 virgins in paradise
martyred to lust for his homeland.
Caribou Barbie dusts & runs her mouth.
Apollo says,
the phoenix that self creating pyre veils all for an instant
with his glowing ashes.
No lines remain on that score.

Lisa says Uncle Ez is nosying round in the barn.
“I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped
from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened
her with insult.” Circe sniffs in her bear‘s-grease Latinity,
ambles round the corner of the world.

Parts & pieces litter the great field. --as though
an angry God had gone this ways,
perhaps so throughout the paradiso
it is so. Minoa lost for centuries,
shards all that’s left,
city of Ra, that the slaves built
lost in chaos.
which each of us have. Should anyone
ask. it is so.
thought it may be dependent on what
the meaning of “is” is to quote another great man.

people cannot go to the taverns
it destroys their way of life,
crime grows worse
boys get taciturn.

girls learn to knit through storms.
Montana I’m told it’s near Idaho.
Paradiso may flash from place to place--

the space of slow walk
were I an old man with a cane
in search of cherry blossoms.
the study of one star ends in a mad whirl,
Rimbaud lies bleeding in a filthy room,
maybe just too close to the poem at last,
the dark lords that demanded the magic,
satiated walk leaving him lost in the center.

Take the next node sir
certain accolades are reserved
the Paradiso is awash in wisdom,
says tom thumb
clambering about the ink well.
overbalanced by his Uncle’s feather.

cat slides shadow to shadow
tail flashing,
no uproar sitting at the railroad tracks
in a big blue convertible
on the way to an arena in Metropolis,
which might someday offer
an exhibit featuring Kandor.
Reset the New king says
as if the walls will just crumble away.

A peaceful end to the violence is sought,
third hand from Jesus to the angel
to the old man who lived in a cave,
out there where the Messiah went, paradiso.

God’s own truth
the rifles won’t chatter to a stop
plain as can be,
Gods’s own truth divided,

the aura in ultra blue,
the cloudie Van,

“sage he stood,
with atlantean shoulders fit to bear
the Weight of Mightiest Monarchies.”

Alexander cloned.
I oil the door on the hut,
so as not to startle the birds--
Spring birthing,
opening.

‘advised if this
be worth attempting or to sit in darkness here
hatching vain Empires” Rev John talking through
some other ass.

Such a pitiless gaze
O paradiso! The Persian beauty
does not lose her religion,
a one piece suit, and a sarong
in the bathing competition.

the young prince,
(great & terrible above all who stand about him)

will not wear his ring,
most will know he is married anyway.
Old Europe,
underneath the mannerisms
Theodora ringed by nymphs
daughter of a favored general
or a fat merchant who relocated from Tyre.
confirmed earlier suspicions
dating from the Afghan War,
(1838-1842)
when twenty thousand British
had died in the retreat from Kabul,

Easterlies wing out to sea
white seabirds
winter’s debri. Lover
wants a Dictaphone
to shout down systems;
the Roc brings Adam’s skull.
Aunt Sally cleans toilets in the Green Zone,
she plans to buy some land in Malibu.

Morning Lisa,
some French poet
says,
sitting inside my head
while in on the balcony
the stiff fellow
in the painting, proud
in my Sunday clothes.

come back inside she says
I’m cold.
An eloquent fashion,
postage stamp over the private bits,
then layers & layers of hot mud,

Ancient Veii! a throne stood in your Forum!
fornication upstairs in the inn,
fevered adulteries in the meadows
swaying golden rod.
Sing not Death
Paradiso ebbs & flows
the king looks on
while I chip at my tablet

the poem sails away
forth on the godly sea,
mundane whirlpool of the Ennui
the interruption of ejaculation
Raoul carries things away
heavy singularities like children
capering about the cart.
Lilith, in Circe’s red gown,
flits from shadow to bright sun.
surely a mother has slain her child,
an appeasement in the paradiso
an airy apartment across from the café.

tis clear the stingy moneylenders
do not like the New government,
they sit upon their gold like fat gnomes
who have stolen from the dwarves--
the builders have nothing to do
they study ancient texts
find mention of golden bowls
Hiram came out of Egypt
may have been Enoch all along.

The Angel in existence
another of the distant children
home being nearly everywhere,
the mad whorl of the Node
may alight anywhere for a moment,
a momentary unquiet in the Angel,

should it pass by. Return of such jazz lines,
riff off painted rectum
loud rouge in the ladies’ room
commercials interrupt flow
the top piece of the good thief’s cross
displayed by the priests for veneration.
minutes later we pick it up again,
the paper noticeably older

someone’s shit in the trumpet
running down the leg
vibration in the tide pool
Faust when He made the deal.
Elizabeth’s uncovered breasts
in the grainy film. Germane
to be busted with the Reverend
wine dyeing your red hair
somewhat darker
while the conditioner
is a melody for his grunts.
The old moonshiner
chips away his hardened mud,
puts the makers away till next fall,
few more seasons up the trail
to cook the corn.
Nearer my God to thee.
where is your province in the state of Man?
Persius asks.

wrong, wrong from the start
not the doing innocent heart,
he was but a student,
determined to bury the holy books
but always digging them up again
scattered fragments, of such frivolity
that Falstaff smiles and launches
into a chorus of ancient rhyme.
casual murder with the tomahawk
quiet office erupts. Boys splash
through a quiet stream
in dappled sunlight.
chump change
Li Po passes in a strange carriage
towards the city
the white towers glow
as to that it will be difficult
to lie in the grass
and watch the clouds.
I return to the papyrus in some disarray
my hair disheveled , how mad
the blossoms in the stray gale.
Fatima, say the rosary faithfully and heal the world.
the message left in the desert
reported that the shiek was fascinated by a white haired woman,
later, he went to the mountains for his health,
from the height he can see the Dead Sea.
The imperial roads are still in good repair
towards the City.

I have written to say I was too ill to travel
but the Prince has not replied,
I am to be cast into the madness
trolley to the city
to the examination rooms,

while we were all expecting the big clumsy bridge
to topple over and land in the chasm--

“now old tim Crane thinks he done something great
but I will beat him him.”

sam patch said over in Paterson.
the other day.

Maya got 36 but they lost
Mythic? of course.
Soldiers of whichever Faith,
Aye! I will die for thee,
as for love ah well
we know little of that
analogue glows pulses
into settled patterns
Jesus strokes
the anti toxin

Maybe Baby
we know it better than most of them dumb Christians.

Section 68. other words lanquish
in desperation, other worlds,
dash with a wild electricity
through decaying nodes,
thorium depleted

scika thrack. Red tide at sea.
Obliged to watch for omens.
mills to braid the wind.
the guild will yield the techman
for repairs throughout the realm.
says the prince.

ferengi rule 29 Subsection a--
the supression of base functions
is to be avoided except in those
instances where profit may be made

Labor Inflation unemployment
manipulation causes a net loss

Subsection b--Limit the opposing teams possessions
Subsection c--scurrilous remarks should pay extra attention to translations

Likely descended from dinosaurs on their home world,
forced to space by its destruction hastened by their excess;
the Ferengi have spent thousands of yarns in search of acquisitions.

It is possible that Captain Archer encountered them
at a very early date, much work is still being done
to repair the damage done by the First Romulan War.
Command & control suffered significant damage during
the first battle of Sol.

First Contact, is recorded by Jean-Luc Picard at a much later date.
They have lately signed a contract not to contract with species who
have not attained Warp capability. Not every chief officer is convinced. An infringement of right to make short term profit.
“off-books” the ambassador oft sighs when the subject comes up.

The chief rivals in the environs of the alpha quadrant is the Orion Syndicate, an amalgamation of several species, dominated by the Orions, whose strict code of Honor, is based on a pheromone
secreted by the female. The pheromone has been known to affect the male in many species including Vulcans.
Unfortunately for the Ferengi they are particularly susceptible to its effects. Many of the most disastrously bungled contracts in recent times may reasonably traced to this cause. An antidote is a chief object in Ferengi research labs across the consortium.

The chief means of exchange among the Ferengi is latinum,
an inert substance slightly more dense than gold. The acquistion of certain sums triggers awards and more avenues of acquistion.
The accumulation of latinum bars could lead to a position
on the board of Acquistion, The supreme government of the Consortium. The Ferengi have embassies on many of the planets in the federation where they are valuble interstellar traders, buying and selling in all manner of goods and services.

Little is known of Ferengi psychology in depth, that information being held by the Consotium as classified. What is known is that the Ferengi will often forego profits if a female is involved. This proclivity is of course incompatible with the Orion pheromone.

Most theories on the evolution center on their early exodus
from their original planet. It is indeed remarkable that in this great epic, that grew to include hundreds of parsecs, they manged to sustain their cohesion as a race. Early Poems, a collection of work from that period, suggests that a Hero, acquired warp drive
at an early date in the expansion. Their first colony may be a
moon in a Jupiter system, with twenty moons colonized, it can be surmised they have been there quite a long while. Some legends suggests that the Ferengi hold a system as a vault for their Latinum, and sacred objects. Humans of Terren origin often suffer a profound sense of disgust in the presence of Ferengi. This has oftened hamper otherwise sensible contracts.

Federation guidelines are an excellent source of information for those who are going to visit Ferengi worlds. Certain precautions are provided. Another excellent source of information are the files produced by the Vulcan Science Academy.

(Tourism in the Federation Today)

Causes of the First Romulan War

As the recipient of warp drive in a primitive
condition their expansion was brutal and bluntly stopped by the fledgling Federation. It has been speculated that they received
warp drive in an iron age. Within nine generations they had colonized 12 planets and ran into The United Federation of Planets. A loose confederation of suspicious species, brought together largely one must admit through the Actions of Admiral Archer.

The Romulan Empire is generally run by the
Senate and has for generations enslaved a race that we have
dubbed Remans. Doubtless a sentient race that held the planet before a colony of proto-vulcans arrived and gave rise to the
Romulans that we know today.

Romulan History, should it ever begin to become
known in the Federation, seems to indicate that a Vulcan
scout discovered a source of warp drive knowledge,
landed, and became a teacher still revered by the romulan people.
The issue is one investigated by the Vulcan Science Academy
which indicated that a scout was lost in that area. The fate of the pilot could not be determined.

Boys History of warfare in the Galaxy.

Section 68. other words lanquish
in desperation, other worlds,
dash with a wild electricity
through decaying nodes,
thorium depleted

scika thrack. Red tide at sea.
Obliged to watch for omens.
mills to braid the wind.
the guild will yield the techman
for repairs throughout the realm.
says the prince.

when the nucleOr plant
burns down
all the lands turns browned
bright lights are dimmed
the wind whistles in El Dorado

Satan, in Milton mode,
reclines the wooden chair in a ruined room,
somewhat irritated at the pace of his command,

no wonder that they let General Fist
prosecute the Prophet’s priests,

first minister Gates
“tis bad to send legions into asia”
where you burn each hut
but only bleed each day.

while being backward in our eyes,
the tribal society has several attributes
of value to deadwood Civ.

The ancillary wars, brushwood,
that the fighters keep an eye on,
a certain level of population control,
in more fertile areas.
expectant angels in bright blue helmets

hand out water & corn
to be stolen by the nearest madman,

the Senators consult the Chart
assess such issues best left to priests,

Simon Magus angling for an army next week,
a new dress for the sacred ball
we are but children thrilled
by the blinking lights.

The Lady is prematurely gray
in the New city
the Prince calls every day
all the stators reside within her walls.
Tis said the Cheney burned her papers down,
foolish man, to save himself from shame.

“what other reason would there be?” says the man
on the telephone on the tv. Hoi! says the thief,
“pretzled pauper at the edge of the sea
aghast at the paradiso trembling”
an old tree in the saltmarsh
should even a light breeze stir--
Last pope so they say.

breathe no longer
than the kittens in the drowning bag,

Poem. The clatter of the buggy on the cobbles
fades. Should some notables visit the hut.
then go away.

Paradiso is unconcerned
that a minor minion
is displeased. The Will
of the All will be accomplished,

the pimps cry out for wild fluctuation
to be the law of the Land.
Like the boy who wanted to be a robot
I shall imitate the impassive angel,
Sam Patch says.
“Liar” says the thief.
I know him well enough the lover says
a tongue deep in her snatch.

verdant juice,
the Prince has found a ripple in the chart,
Hari Selden confirms a Time of Troubles lies ahead.
Sam Patch says he can put the bridge back on course

again.

Frakking would ease our minds, Adama says
leading Eve back inside out of the rain.
Pater Nostres. Dr. Williams may have said the same thing
him being a medical man. A whale endeavors to say hello
in the most beautiful way possible, this may take awhile,
the white crane will fly in and settle later,

---you
a poet (ridded)
from Paradise

a very dirty book indeed,
the kill team
or some other atrocity,
Satan enjoys being Caligula
then laughs when his toy is broken.
Corporal Morelock
was a bit mad they say
but most of them boys they got
scratch their ass in public
and not think about it a lot.

“common knowledge”
sgt. sd. The Samurai was given leave
to chastise the farmer,

but might postpone the penance
till after planting or harvest
the lieutenant is a Captain
another hero in the chain of command.

The Creation has turned against him,
they often will,
Osama was seen to rise & hover
aim & fire an arrow
and shot the predator down.
The Americans have it in HD.
It is very classified indeed
an exact reproduction is available
for 19.95

The operator hesitated
Kirk on the Farragut
Picard on the sea with Gilgamesh.
talking with scalawags along the Milk river,
exchanging the news.

Dying for Glory don’t need no help from Lucifer.
Sam Patch. Buttin in.

Congress got nothing to bitch about
so they praise a high school basketball season.
they coulda deregulated the Net
but they didn’t
“and the fleet at Salamis made with money lent by the state to the shipwrights”

The Chairman disagrees that his flowery introductions obstructs
the business of the committee stating that the public is well served to know the sterling colleagues with whom he now serves.

“we may look forward, then, to the possibility of large arrays
of silicon film photoelectric cells in sunny areas, producing vast quantities of electric current out of sunlight. This current will be used to electrolyze water, and produce hydrogen.”
1983.

Tiny little critters that live
in the disc player are quiet neighbors.
the wild birds wd not eat the white bread,
purloined altered
extended,

“Filth stank as in our day” Ez remarks
during a lull when we would feel
the hopeless senselessness,
weight of the spleen shifted
vehemence at its opening bid

from heart to mind
the spirit flees
Sam Patch in tow

counting the points in the paint
“come now,” says Ez
the poison in the dog food has been
stopped, but the jet planes are flying
apart, merry Darger in the other universe,
just over there.
says he dug the pitkin himself

Sam Patch he knew well
most all of them did back then.
all of them had a dog in the race
a speculation, Henry said
arm around Patch in the Moulin Rouge.

Hoi! this national paradiso
cannot be erased.
sub-sonic peel of Velcro ,
the release of oxygen.
toxic repressions of the Id,
Edsel in charge of Design.
the Bird blew bop
chopper on the wall,
attack design--
deep in the ruin
somewhere in Id;
We smear it as Jimbo’s Bob City
and move on

a massive delusion--

Michelangelo on the
floor, the table filled with designs
the golden light reflected
on the wisps of dust
apprentices on scaffolds
covered in paint.

A sad rower on the stream tonight,
commission for a Nobleman
short of verse
the extent of his malady
has robbed him of thought
and he lies nearly senseless
at the edge of his bed.

and what’s worse he’d rather be with his lover,
the angle of the pivot
my poor hammer dings the anvil
with a faint ping
in the raucous of the shop
sharp men spit in the direction of the spitoon--
Circe atop the bar legs crossed
at a dangerous angle.

“The neighbor might be a pervert,”
Lisa says,
“not that it matters to me”

chides me for my rather quiet joy
at the moment of matters,

this morning we learn that the Chinese
discovered cardboard
it remains to be seen what else.

Robonaut,
killed the video star;
adjusting nodes
on the mechanical bar.

“takes off her sweater, then her bra,
and then says, “lets ball, dig?” --
by which she means, let’s try
a new far out sound on the hi-fi. If
he reaches out to touch anything
other than the tone arm, she will say,
“your through, frantic boy. You
are sawed off.”

“Aha! she that was the gateway of the nations
is broken,
her gates swing open to me;
I grow rich, she lies in ruins.”

The archaeologist is working in a vaginal gouge,
he insists that it is virginal,
26 instances of similarity,

a violent ideation
further pinches a reversed man
on bruised knees
Holy holy holy
the cock bursts measures & seams
strains & accelerates

over the hump
seek no aggrandizement
mired in a poor man’s war,
some greens, an old robe,
quiet hours buried in the old parchments
love for its own sake scratched into odd characters,

Circe herself enraged at the masques
which fall into the sea below
her wind blown tattered robes
which still manage to conceal the swell of her breast.
Morning bursts over blue peaks
blurred eyes conceal tears
smoke rises on checkered plains.

How their faces shine in the hot sun
as they bury the high priest in the long trench
picks spark on the sandstone
ring between the words of psalm.

armed with a flimsy reed to hold the wind
his lover in Circe’s robes
pricks her palm
and rubs the blood into the old meat
they share

cool flesh under threatening sky--
they knew they were naked and sought fire

Try another book. break through the dry air
of the place. (the good doctor would have me
use the pitchfork to pile more corpses in the trench)
Li Po was certain he could find his way here,
why should he leave now, as deep as he was within her,
her breath fogged upon the window?

I should have said it certainly
the black blotch in the center of the nave,

“it will not last forever
against the long sea”
dredging up the old rower,
“wine dark sea,”
stench of the dead coughed up--

all is well if you can still taste blood
despite the apparitions
hold her ever more closely
even when alone:
Love will climb like ivy
and choke the fear,
let her be the furnace
the pebble & the leaf
the way things are
when you reach to silence the alarm.

Section 56. the new cafes are filled
with unnamed cadavers;
mild chocolate rivers,
rev Hagee preaches from San Antonio stage,
televised to the White Swallow Motel:
seed pours out of her cunt
rather than an envelope addressed
to the Ministry. Cold Earth
knows the destination of the delivery,

blood, chest high in the Jordan,
seven months to bury the dead.

I wonder if Gabriel knows the Blues
to play to a happy few
groveling at Jesus’ Knees
holy holy holy
says the magpie from ruined trees.
contrary to play dough the Elect
carry golden bricks to erect
the Temple of the Lord.
Heaven laid the world on me
the angel sings,
loading the souls of politicians & poets
hipsters & kings
whores & hobo’s
into Charon’s black boat
for the deepest dark part of the underworld,

Imagine the new lies they’ll create
balls sawed off & cunts sewn shut--
Hell, Lucifer’s Cd on repeat
a Cuban dictators endless spiel
in a darkened movie house
hot mud on the eyelids

Rev Hagee needs HD seed to stopper up his mouth
coat his teeth with gold to save you from this awful fate
so you can carry bricks for the temple of the Lord.
The Savior says it won’t be bad, once we free you from desire,

In the New City, gogs roam deserted streets,
and the saved don’t dream much of anything
blank eyes coated with dust under a hot sun.

such poems surmise
palpitate with lies
groan
mediate such sin as may be already present in the water,
winter’s piss etching the snow, saffron

the old man allows that Circe’s breath
will carve the drifts

sometimes there’s a bit of magic

all day relief from a cold
Mischief the boy said
when I asked him what he was up to
amazing what you already know
if you think about it some
embroiled in the aftermath of the flood.

too many reason in the soft mud,
“the foul fiend haunts poor tom in the voice of a nightingale”
loose soil churned up
torn by the Dragon’s new rain.

I would have the auburn smell as well
lingering about the new green
faint film of disturbed air
a raindrop
a bit of mold drapes another
in the fold of the rock
the roll of thunder & flash of Light.
fearful of must be falls asleep
at the edge of forever is a faint music
“but he who will work shall give birth to his own father“-

and exhausted wake to further labor;
such toil is breath, air modulated
grazes Circe’s hair
as if a poet dared be born
in her ruin.

The runes on the path
insist that the dragon is good Fortune
as the ascent to South Mountain begins
by holding his tail
you might navigate between the rabbit & boar
so it’s said in the shadow of the moor
by ancient sages who know such lore,

Circe’s lover will rush ahead
to gather a rare flower for her hair
only to discover darkness assembled

Sam Patch might strike the standing stones
to no avail
till the Light catches up if it ever does.
If she loves him
he might find her with her hand between her legs
a wet fire falls into a shining pool

if not
Morrigan will eat his dream
demons will cast his seed in barren land
and he will feed on corpses
upright & rotted on the dead trails.
the words may ring discordant
stale
in that path towards the grail.

South Mountain is a dangerous place
says the Pastor in his sermon
surrounded by artificial flowers
and wires.

.

Section 111. the arc of testimony, an alchemist
flirts with the sun breath upon wave
context of memory turning down leaves in a library
stab spilled words that the Republic finds needless,

or worthless. out of the Light the magic infants speak,
incessant rain, gray towers, wet mist matting their hair
the separation of their tears consuming the last years,
old bones embarked upon holy war

gutters gleaned of leaves,
evidence of their innocence
expunged
unart lilies displayed in chipped vases
they who would have written the silence,
the night, who would have startled
the frenzies in their flight
tiny fists grab stars

as it must be understood anew each time
wrenched from flower & seed
the crops have a human taste
in the craters where the babes are lain

old fires smolder against their light

“Child! Child! Child! Where are you
Amid the smoke that crawls upon the ground?
Tyger tyger burning bright”

Sweating, blood thighed Circe
crosses the plank
notices the bits of flesh
that cling to the side of the ditch as if alive.
Section 973. begins a slow migration to the vanished point,
it’s a harlequin he sees at the end of the procession,
most of the rest just savage stabs of paint
wire droops parallel from tall towers
the wind is sensed from outside,
odd that the Paradiso resides from point to point
like a bus ride
most is the rigging hands busy with knots
& loops mashed gluons trampled over groins
trapped by the carpets where residuals lie
champagne in hand butterfly high
in ash blond dye “the reference is a distraction,”
she lied, “the obvious analogy is with music,
which extends beyond the figure which the space
occupies,”

little toes depict escapades
these too expose woes
the patter of words explode
on the Company walls

Meanwhile, the cat
opens & closes the bathroom door
el camino real
all of which is to say the harlequin
is not entirely inside
the stench which the perfume hides
no matter in which room the cries are heard.

‘and him all ready to rewrite history
should a footnote present itself’

Tinkerbelle is humpty-dumpty on the wall
roundabout,
the big people digging everything inside out
they can’t see her outside in they’re not
not that the whirly stops
even if they are tying with knots
all along the line. Bedlam busy with busses,
chuck & upchuck, crosstown-
Bellevue beatitudes
stern crusaders with whisky breath
batons at the ready
if the story should end untold
George says,
who fingers the rosary
paints superman on an old rail fence
his cape draped delicately
over the bluebells and ask me nots
brand new you.
brain bots clean the pathways,

surely there is no magic
in the basket of apples
chaos carries through the woods
for these people are new
even their dead living
ablaze jazz nerves in improvisation

Li Po stares through the window
at incessant rain,
Circe her hair wild
races the cold wind
the poet sketches a quick portrait of the singularity
Rorschach storms steady light the boil of black
toil & trouble, the calm witches weave
mauve into scarlet into green,

a place for sacrificial offerings
the light came to be one
Teresa thighs wide
fluid drips on the concrete
that her bare feet have scraped.
the mold writhes upon the rock
rippling in cold space,

in the interval
the sector of Paradiso allotted
excited flesh plots
to wipe the rain from Circe’s eyes
comb her wet hair
quiet her questing thighs--

Mute Apollo, small boy to be born
dressed in blue paint
who is it that asks the question?

Section 110. “ Mondrian was also dismayed
by van Doesburg’s introduction of the diagonal line into his work which he viewed as a breech of Neo-plastic principles. He withdrew his support from De Stiyl, explaining to van Doesburg “after your arbitrary correction of Neo-Plasticism, any collaboration, of no matter what kind, has become impossible for me.”

Are you asleep, all the what in that which is curled smoke
round the bleeding bed? Each local “thing”
babes in dirty towels twinkling
on the bent street, or in exclusion
grand dreams that drag you about the execution stone,

blood under light. the culled tyger
of this paradiso, polyglot
with dulled cloak
scraped by dry bramble
drool an elixir
for the under weaned
who have plucked “it”
until the strings no longer ring.

I stands bickering with itself
on the stage with I speaks
of longs for itself
mind the staircase’s descent
doesn’t spirit away the toys;

me go town
under clouds the predators fly
as Circe plies the keys
a hurried etude
for a gaunt weary paradiso.

“Poured we libations unto each the dead”

until the desert overflowed with broken cups.

section 110. I, as one thing, a nice quiet paradiso-
foment in the notes; nothing’s finished, half bleemed
says the scribe in Ur
Sam Patch in the backyard
sees rust on the wheelbarrow
arms full of potted flowers
he walks down to the river
ever unstill
to plant a garden around the juniper
fulcrum. Leaping fawn breaks from thicket,
the old dog won’t scour no more,
old compacts lay rolled in the reed buckets--

back up the hill. The mines hereabouts
have been bled dry says the old man
damned old horse been dead all day
and nobody got a notion how to move
it off the road and into the shade
so the flies can have a good meal.

same with the malaise in the bones
nerves too tired to twist ‘em anymore
eyes got a bloodworm
everything an old movie
movin too fast to catch anything
about the life underneath the heroic.

text of which is,
Sam in a yellow Toyota
late for the Pepsodent commercial
in which he kisses resplendent Dawn
who must go home and be beaten
by the cad that she married
text of which is says the Director
after twenty takes
perfect at union scale.
all along the river
the candy wrappers dance.

2010-06-14T17:07:00.000-04:00

Hard copy is truth.

Got that from Capt. Ron. Probably he stole it from somewhere.

a media matters comment:

2010-05-08T07:47:00.002-04:00

One might find a prototype of each of them, O'Reilly, Limburger, Hammity, & Becky in South Park's Eric Cartman. Pale. Pasty. The foul stench of unhealthiness, despite the camouflage of flattering lights and make-up; the sly superiority and subtle bigotry of every word they utter, as if, indeed, their education ended in the third grade.

Each of them licks at the bootstraps of a power which they can never have, and never should have as the case of Rove clearly illustrates. Let us be content that they spout their nursery rhymes and made up worlds from the safe environs of Mr. Roger's neighborhood, the faux world of the television studio.--

A few of their more glaring flaws,

Mr. O'Really drools whenever Ms. Me'am Schtick appears on his show, nearly incoherent he fawns obsequiously.

Becky is the playground prophet, the master of everything, should you dare to disagree with him, you will be rewarded with a host of petty revenges, a trait each of our Carthons exhibit to one degree or another, as fear is the primary weapon in their endless war against reality. Pale Becky is the weakest of the crew, the one most vulnerable to hurt--

Ah, Mr. Limburger! What name has he not been called? His royal round puffiness bleating day after day? One notes he attaches his own inefficiencies to those he attacks; primarily Mr. Clinton, and Mr. Obama--with Mrs. Clinton in the role of Victim/witch. A psycho-sexual drama, in which day after day, he chips away at the charisma which for all his ill gotten wealth he cannot buy.

Mr. Hammity is the kid nobody pays attention to--even now he's more or less the forgotten member of our little crew, whatever he spews he's overshadowed by his more flamboyant com-padres. So, he fabricates his own little world, and peoples it with people that agree with only him, just as he has always done.

Classic Bullies each & every one. A stage we all went through, one time or another. Most of us came to the conclusion that it was somehow distasteful, something which we abhorred in ourselves, others, apparently, find it heady as it imbues them with a sense of pseudo power, as whatever ever they might choose to cast upon the waters must be the truth because they have said it.

Attention is what they truly crave, take it away and they will slowly sink into oblivion--deep down we all know that, we also know that when we get bored with these, the impresarios and puppet masters will give us a new crop of buffoons to play with.

another Post that will never see the light of day at Media Matters:

2010-05-07T14:27:00.002-04:00

"A Revised History of the United States"
by Becky Glenn, world renowned Expert on nearly everything.

also available exclusively here: Becky Glenn's "Snake Oil for the nearly Everything."
see also!!! Becky Glenns "New Translation of the Bible" in which anything Becky doesn't agree with is left out!

ORDER NOW!!!!! at Becky Glen.con.

2010-05-05T09:50:00.000-04:00

2010-04-28T16:24:00.003-04:00

another comment of mine that will never see the light of day at Media Matters:

Out of all those groups it is the white guys who are the most afraid--after two hundred years of making the rules they are being pushed out into the cold to shift for themselves like every one else. Slice it up anyway you like, they don't like taking orders from no black guy. Their white Christian nation no longer exists, not that it ever really did.

All the idiotic accusations, the endless stream of lies, the conspiracies and junk mail--are to be read as one thing, maintaining their position, and it's a losing battle even if they were to take to the streets with their toy rifles and righteous indignation, the tide will sweep them aside. In 10 or 15 years, despite their idiot denial the rise of global change will cause a shift in population so vast that it will overrun the iron curtain and tanks stationed on their precious border. The picayune squabbles of an elitist minority will seem laughable, and it will be an entirely new America that will deal with the problem.

:::not that it matters anyway:::

2010-04-28T10:25:00.002-04:00

financial reform?

Wall street has already bought one political party and at least half of another is kept in its back pocket just in case. As if that weren't enough there is an unearthly silence from the tea party--a bit of cosmetics, a symbolic slap on the wrist and its back to the festivities. Seems to me the wherewithal for the intangibles comes from the defense industry's insatiable thirst for gadgets to hurt people with--that is the gold, the hard cash, the product itself. All the rest of it is just worthless paper; the creation of overactive imaginations with nothing really much to do. The endless numbers nothing more than the evolution of alchemy, base metal changed into gold, or its modern equivalent. No-one wants to look directly at the sun of course; to sever one's connections to the source is to slowly starve to death. As long as the illusion is kept intact, the cattle will amble from the pasture each morning and line up dutifully at the trough.

here now! look at this Number, on page 8 of section 9--which is entirely fictitious but is made to appear not so by the adding of this and so & so, creatively, almost as if it were the magic castle in which Sleeping Beauty is at rest, and so far, every Prince that comes along has been bought & sold, or hung on the long thorns until he turns to bone.

Expect the lie. In the Empire there is no truth, and the Republic was a dream someone had a long time ago.

2010-04-26T07:56:00.005-04:00

some feeble attempts at translation:

La Beauté
by Charles Baudelaire

I am beautiful, O mortals! as a dream stone
And my breast, where everyone was bruised in turn,
Is made to inspire love for the poet.
Eternal and mute as matter.
I sit in the sky like a sphinx

I combine a snowheart to the whiteness of swans;
I hate all movement that disturbs the lines
As to my emotion
I neither laugh nor cry

Poets, before my poses, that I steal
from the proudest masterpieces
study will eat up your days

For I, to entertain the docile lovers,
have pure mirrors to change these things to beauty
my eyes, my eyes wide in the endless light.

La Mort des Amants
by Charles Baudelaire

We shall have a bed of light scents,
sofas as deep tombs,
strange flowers on shelves,
birthed for us under a sweeter sky.

Employing their last hot season in this world,
Our two hearts will be torches,
Which will reflect the light
into our two minds, these twin mirrors.
As evening will play rose and mystic blue,

We shall exchange a flash of lightning,
As a long sob bloated with goodbyes;
and later an Angel will open doors,
Will come to revive, dutiful and happy,
The tarnished mirrors and the dead fire.

.................

dissatisfaction has led me down this path. seems like most translations are stilted,
and actually repress the Poet. He was the first Modernist, I should like to see him kept so...

The Gears

2010-04-24T09:02:00.003-04:00

Old Ben said if you give up liberty for security, you're screwed--
well, he didn't say it quite like that, he lived in a more refined age.

Ours is one of self-appointed Messiahs who preach the doctrine of the dollar supported by the Christian God against all enemies, foreign & domestic--the president of course being all three is particularly demonized--

not to put too great a spin upon it--the Republic has always been fractious, splintered, divided & savage but the electronic media in league with a primitive ideology is a dangerous new brew for the production of demagogues; once the seed is planted in the mind of the gullible it is hard to remove. Thankfully, most of those subverted are aged and apt to pass away in the next 20 years or so, we are left to ponder on just much more power the oligarchs can accrue to themselves and how much the next generation will become accustomened to their rule in that span.

One must bear in mind that the State has been elitist since its inception--the plebs have made inroads here and there but the basics remain in place. Underneath the noise is an erosion of this aristocracy in the face of a new multiculturalism that is driving the Messiahs to ever greater dementia & frustration. The most visible manifestation of that change is the Man in the white house--it should be noted that they have come to tolerate women as long as they maintain the status quo, that is, Eve as helpmate to Adam--(Bachman-Palin Syndrome)but those that step out of it and claim equality or God forbid primacy are to be assumed to be agents of the Devil, the Clinton-Pelosi syndrome.

Caesar was killed not because he was a tyrant (that question is not answered by History) but rather because he threatened the wealth of the oligarchs--as was true of the Gracchi--rarely are the oligarchs themselves dispatched, but it has occurred generally under the guise of a "new" government as in Britain & France--the elite prefer assassination it seems for shall we say continuity,--the Kennedys, Martin Luther King. Just as an aside consider why would a communist murder John Kennedy, a liberal democrat with an ambitious program for social reform that moved the country towards equality--that he did I have no doubt, but the motivation seems skewed to me. Maybe the textbooks in Texas could enlighten me as to how that all worked out.

I am hopeful we will stumble on for another hundred years or so, until the factions becomes so polarised they can no longer be kept from each other's throats, the institutions break down by even more glaring incompetence than we see now, and the system of checks & balances erode to the point that we acquiesce to the first Man in Rome--someone like Boehner who waits quietly for the opening, the crack in the facade.

Might be worth remembering he will step forward to "save the Republic," not just fix it.

2010-04-22T09:20:00.004-04:00

'In my view a good poem is one in which the form of the verse and the joining of its parts seems light as a shallow river flowing over its sandy bed.' Basho

"Pound said that poetry could be divided according to three essential elements: phanopoeia, melopoeia, and logopoeia – the play of image, music, and meaning. In his manifestos for imagism and vorticism he advanced a poetry stripped of all nonessential elements, where every word makes a necessary contribution to the poem, “which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time."

Bernstein.

Reference--call it bedrock.

derivations:

"Meaning is not a capitalist construct, as they claim, but meaninglessness is, and 9/11 was an explosion of meaning in the prevailing media-fantasy unreality of the nation."

http://poeticinvention.blogspot.com/

"Romanticism marks the shift from thinking of poetry as a “craft” (and of the poet as “maker”) to thinking of it as a provoker of consciousness, even a creator of consciousness."

If poetry is particularly the domain of the “inner life,” then it is precisely not the domain of the I. The notion that poetry is the domain of the I comes from the ideology of individualism—a term whose etymology insists that we are “not divided.” If we are individuals, then of course we are most authentic when we speak from the point of view of our individuality, from the point of view of our I. But what if the I is in fact multiple, divided, full of many contradictory elements not all of which are even recognized? What if the I is not the unity that the word I presupposes it to be? What sort of poetry is generated by such a conception of the “inner life”? What was the “Romantic” stance about such matters?

http://poemsandpoetics.blogspot.com/2010/02/reconfiguring-romanticism-37-jack-fo ley.html

yet we are dealt this hand:

"Data in the 21st century is largely ephemeral, because it is so easily produced: a machine creates it, uses it for a few seconds and overwrites it as new data arrives. Some data is never examined at all, such as scientific experiments that collect so much raw data that scientists never look at most of it. Only a fraction ever gets stored on a medium such as a hard drive, tape or sheet of paper. yet even ephemeral data often has ‘descendents’ — new data based on the old. Think of data as oil and information as gasoline: a tanker of crude oil is not useful until it arrives, its cargo unladed and refined into gasoline that is distributed to service stations. Data is not information until it becomes available to potential consumers of that information. On the other hand, data, like crude oil, contains potential value.”

Roger E. Bohn and James E. Short, “How Much Information? 2009: Report on American Consumers”, Global Information Industry Center, University of California, San Diego, December 9, 2009

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2010/04/a-textual-ecosystem/

From Silliman's "huts"

192. A friend, a member of the Old Left, challenges my aesthetic. How, he asks, can one write so as not to “communicate”? I, in turn, challenge his definitions. It is a more crucial lesson, I argue, to learn how to experience language directly, to tune one’s senses to it, than to use it as a mere means to an end… [which] is, in bourgeois life, common to all things, even the way we “use” our friends… But language, so that it is experienced directly, moves beyond any such exercise in despair, an unalienated language. He wants an example. I give him [Robert] Grenier’s
thumpa
thumpa
thumpa
thump
pointing out how… it is a speech that only borders on language, how it illumines
that space. He says, “I don’t understand.” (Huts 63)

"how it illumines that space."
(fills an "Emptiness")
The direct experience of the "thing"--in this case,
language. might be said, that Mr Williams, and Mr.
Silliman fail admirably. No harm in trying I don't
suppose--but the wheelbarrow bears the entire
weight of the human endeavor on its back,

John Browns Body In repose
thumpa
thumpa
thumpa
thump.

Following the Death of Beauty.

2009-07-14T10:36:00.003-04:00

"In his production of Die Entführung, the Catalan stage director Calixto Bieito set the opera in a Berlin brothel, with Selim as pimp and Konstanze one of the prostitutes. Even during the most tender music, copulating couples littered the stage, and every opportunity for violence, with or without a sexual climax, was taken. At one point, a prostitute is gratuitously tortured, and her nipples bloodily and realistically severed before she is killed. The words and the music speak of love and compassion, but their message is drowned out by the scenes of desecration, murder, and narcissistic sex."

Roger Scruton
Beauty and Desecration

It is not something we can reject out of hand, this, "Death of Beauty". The animal is now the primary object. Following the legacy of Freud, our acknowledgment of the infantile subservience, the god that we were allowed to be--and our descent into simply Man. Cast adrift on the sea of alone; the only light left shining that of despair. Myth becomes no more than childish daydreams, religion has been cast into dustbin of history, irrelevant to what we have become; or may become, as we stand on the threshold looking in on what might be the bright harsh truth.

Art becomes the anvil & the hammer upon which we forge ourselves into whatever it is that we might become, at each moment with each Act we portray what we are--now; and at each interval a little bit more of what we could be is revealed.

We want. We need. We desire. Mired in the infantile "I" that must prosper, beauty is nothing more than a whore, a selfish confiscation of a future perfect in which the imaginer is permitted to return the ideal godhood of the womb. Reality is not observed, it is discarded.

III

Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripped,
Peleus on Thetis stares.
Her limbs are delicate as an eyelid,
Love has blinded him with tears;
But Thetis' belly listens.
Down the mountain walls
From where pan's cavern is
Intolerable music falls.
Foul goat-head, brutal arm appear,
Belly, shoulder, bum,
Flash fish-like; nymphs and satyrs
Copulate in the foam.

--yeats

Mr Goldsmith & Mr Silliman--"The New Sentence"

2009-07-08T12:53:00.001-04:00

. . . yet no one means a word of it,

it is always a masque.

dysjunction--

What is being said then, by these quietists, and as has been proposed, these more progressive forms? Is the diversion not in what is being said, but rather in who is saying it? Shall we not say that the "lesson of the poem" is simply a byproduct and not the point at all? The dialectic is the "I" and the "not I". --which might be related to the essential question of freedom vs equality, but let's not bother with that here...

Problems on all fronts--the Quietests, for lack of a better label, assert the primacy of the personal, the authority of experience as filtered by the "me", --I have done this and from this which I have done I construct this.

For the progressives, I am not therefore how do I remove me from that which is constructed. The current answer to that seems to be a more or less random matrix of language, combination & recombinations culled from the collective. (Which one might note is just as illusory as the "I" itself)

If one were so inclined one might chuckle at the impossibility of it all. Let us consider, of what use is a Poetry that strips us of our heroic deeds, be they glorious or mundane--and if it is all a lie (something we have learned to live with over the centuries) what purpose does it serve?

at any rate, we are left with the argument itself, the words being but pastels shading the real debate alive inside the poem.

Is the artificial construct of the I a valid motive for poetry to exist, and without it can we consider it poetry at all?

A vexing problem for (me) muddling about in the shadows of it all, grasping of shards of that which appears to be real but which turns out to be nothing at all, as the vibrations of the strings may be just a will-o-the-wisp so far

which is where we all are.

Morgana's Mist---

2009-07-08T10:18:00.000-04:00

How much of who we are is shaped by the machinations of the Hologram?

Where can we go to find ourselves, the "me" that is not the "not me" fashioned by the influx? How much worse it must be for those who are co-opted to be the organ of the "thing" itself!

No! No! I am me, myself. Perhaps not. The perspective we assume is an illusion; scissors must be kept close at hand to open the packaging. One notes that the me itself is an illusion, a deeper one, perhaps, than the one we buy, and it belongs to an ancillary arm of the illusion. Fey these arguments over opinions, they were given to us in Morgana's mist.

It might be, that rather than, "I think, therefore I am, it might be more realistic to say we think, therefore I am.--

a quote from an article on Sarah Palin:

"It’s about me running the country.

It’s about me running.

It’s about me."

She too, like Michael was our creation. Our aggregate persona descends upon them, those who seep up from the bubbling mass, and the apparatus reflects who and what they are according to our desires. Is it any wonder that they should seek to escape the glare of not me in some exaggerated gesture of defiance? They are no worse than You or I, but they are magnified, analyzed for the benefit of our own me, in a way they justify, reinforce that which we ourselves have taken to create that which is who I am.

The literature is abundant, from Catullus to Li Po to Mauberly to Warhol, and in between and beyond, and so on. It might be said that in the end we can never form a coherent opinion as the information is faulty, based as it is on a motive which can only be guessed at and never truly known.

Aberrations must be expected. Freedom exists only insofar as we are allowed to extract that which we desire from the Machine, one might call it Mother, as we suck from its breast from birth unto death...

as we all know, even as we kick against the pricks.

Part 2--of an Open Letter to Karl Rove.

2009-04-17T10:13:00.004-04:00

In all truth, Mr. Rove, I do not preach to you. One does not swerve a high priest from his purposes,--rather, one dodges the stones. Which, when one strips away the hypocrisy and fine words is what boys do; tho it may be that you missed out on some of that. The sting of the stones is honest, sir, of that I can attest; but no, I do not preach to you, only those that you deceive. Rest assured, it will not be me that records the history of your time upon the stage.

cursus honorum

Our path of honors diverge, mined mired in dog shit, yours as a lap dog in the seats of power, in neither, I'll warrant at least, was honor very much involved. The temper of the times, perhaps, as there were few that licked that dog's ass in Sodom, as we all lied in the struggle to be free. Fact is, I've met a few good men, but not many, though the definition of good might vary, and it may be that you would include yourself as one of those. If so, I could not agree, not having met you, I have only your actions as a guage. Possibly, should you become apprised of my own actions, you would find them objectionable; I would not fault you for that, as I said our course of honors did not seek the same path. The path of authority did not appeal to me, to you it was all that did. "what matter if a man should gain the whole world...?" Let's just say the price deterred me.

After Caesar, it all fell into some disrepute, an archaic ritual, the game changed to a lavish boot licking, a list of those who must be pleased today--the toady who sweeps about the room bearing good news and gifts, false words upon the health of the king. As to that, you would know far more than I, I have only the histories to guide me. In those it seems the good men most often are dead in short order. They often lie unburied, and rot outside the palace walls. To judge by the pages, one might consider that the conservative ideal, I would not be so hasty, as times change, and more insidious methods are employed.

I might argue, were I so inclined, that the dignatas associated with the path of honors, would depend not so much on the honors themselves but rather on the influence of truth in their acquisition, a point not lost upon Caesar as he hesitated at the Rubicon. In the end, it might be said that he chose himself over the welfare of the state, and the Republic ended. Is it not sad when such men no longer respect the institutions which brought them into such a position in the first place? of what worth is a path of honors in such a case? Empty titles, one might imagine. A humble man, such as myself, might be glad not to have such a treasure to toss away. Not to repeat myself, as Haughty Anthony did--but our paths did diverge.
Caesar was ambitious, so they said, and they were all honorable men.

One comes to the nature of success, in some sense I suppose, that depends on one's own nature, that is to say, are we tied to the trappings of life or to life itself.
We must look through the prism of ourselves, the fiction that is "me"--a fractured entity that peers through the veil at the other actors on the stage--and like Augustus we ask if we have played our part well, and the answer lies in the part we choose to play. We want to know if we had a role in the outcome of the Game, whether someone might remember our name. Time out of mind, most are content to melt back in the river, some want to leave a scar, some let the matter be deferred, and in due course some are more revered than others, having in some way changed the water of the river. Success might be more than what we first surmised when we began our enquiry, in some ways easier than we thought, and in others impossible. We create a ripple; at least the fiction believes he did, and who's to say, perhaps he really was for a time, tipping his hat to the passersby.

Ethical Man

Ah, Mr Rove--I have put you off for several days--perusing your accusations, your depravities, your failure.

What a mess! Talking some shit to make it all shiny? Won't wash, nope--still a mess. I'd apologize; thanks to you, America is tottering on the brink and may fall into the tank with hungry sharks. Seems kinda idiotic to me, seeing you dance from from the desk of one mad dog to another spewing blame on everyone but yourself. Machiavelli would have laughed at you, then cut your throat--Dumb fuck, you can't go half-way to Hell and then turn back again. The Armies of the Night don't sleep, they just keep gnawing away on you.

You call that crap an Idealogy? Just wondering. Stolen elections, blackmail, libel, torture, bribery, coercion, fraud?--and that makes you rich, an American success story? Is it like success when you get up every morning making the rounds of the shit slingers defending yourself till you fall over dead? I reckon that's the price you pay for only going half way, had you finished the trip your enemies would disappear wouldn't they? As it is, you can't even frame them anymore.

I don't suppose there is a right & wrong, all that matters is where you wind up.
I wonder though just where you'll be in the Roll of Great Americans, somewhat down the list of ones who didn't quite measure up I'd surmise, somewhat north of John Wilkes Booth, but a bit south of Boss Tweed.

First Part Of An Open Letter to Karl Rove:

2009-04-02T16:06:00.006-04:00

preface to the Lie itself:

We speak for free markets and free people, the principles, if you will, marked in the watershed year of 1776 by Thomas Jefferson's Declaration of Independence and Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations." So over the past century and into the next, the Journal stands for free trade and sound money; against confiscatory taxation and the ukases of kings and other collectivists; and for individual autonomy against dictators, bullies and even the tempers of momentary majorities.

Manifesto of Wall Street Journal.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123984928625323721.html

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123862834153780427.html#mod=rss_Today%27s_Most_Popular

Conservatives saw the savagery of 9/11 in the attacks and prepared for war; liberals saw the savagery of the 9/11 attacks and wanted to prepare indictments and offer therapy and understanding for our attackers."--Karl Rove

One wonders which of those positions is closer to the view held by Jesus? It's rather amazing the ignorance which can be uncovered by a policy of lies, fear & hate. One wants it all to make sense, but the schemes force the data to be manipulated, and the money changers gossip on the temple steps--a tale a congresswoman should read as she frets about the fate of the almighty dollar, and its brief waltz upon the stage.

the larger Ideals are lost on these petty little men, ambition reduced to the angles in the next deal, firewalls, blind alleys, and connections, same as it was in Ur, it may be imagined, as thus the city grew. Upon this cusp, the forces drawing to a point, it is easy enough to deplore their selfish schemes. It could be recalled, should one wish to, Paul, how much of his time was spent in keeping them from falling away, oh, into one idolatry or another--children as we are, despite our pretensions, happy with our toys, our absent pleasures. Pleasantly unaware that bullies do not mature, they simply age. And Paul? the Wisdom he has acquired, he mostly keeps to himself, as like Simon Magus he is bent on acquiring more, though nothing, as we should have learned by now, will buy us one second more. A worrisome bit of news that, all in all. Spun in Gossamer these new little Napoleons, unwrapped;
nothing is to be found at all. Old Will, finding smoke and fading voices in the sound & fury, as he waits through the next commercial with his Ovaltine, product placement doncha know, none of us are immune, nor particularly healthy all in all. The words all run together, the elegies, the prophecies, the wills and the contracts.

The sermons all get a bit stale, at the point where one can stare through them at the lies and the hypocrisy. One notes that charismatic is costume jewelry and blinking lights. Criticism nothing more than a bath in a bloated vocabulary: "Daylight obscured in the fog of our exhalation". The testaments pile up in the sunlit dusty room, arcane, obscure--paranoid, the currents drifting in history ignored in favor of green slimes crawling on the insides of the mind, the rot produced by (insert fav adjective here) society; just another day at the beach, watching each other carefully for signs of imperfection, the undertow of communication in the isolation. Gets to the point that there should have been a spark in all the connections, something in the way the car was parked, or a wrinkle out of place in the rumpled blankets on the bed, nothing shakes loose though, nothing occurs; maybe it was just a failure in the current observation, might be good to turn Hope over and kiss her ass, or wait for a messiah to start another crusade with poppies growing over the killing fields. What then when it stares directly into the eyes? The last wall of illusion crumbling away?

Another bedlam of words, another dusty testament, fraught with error, something to be tidied up, edited and collated, and placed carefully atop the pile, storage for another bit of poison, an act of muttering. Nothing more--even the loud voices are muted in the din; those that sing of greater things beyond the rim shouted down, and beaten with sticks. Something to answer the need, the throb and rhythms of another pestilence, a palanquin from which coins may be thrown into the streets to subdue the ennui, some fair tower from which to mock the dying city, and the fools marching in tidy rows against an onrushing tide of fire, umbrellas folded beneath their arms.

These learned fellows expect recompense, for that which survival demands, failing that they steal...

In the wake of faux tea party, the principles of Mr. Goebbels applied directly to the body politic, the Lie repeated often enough, it becomes increasingly difficult to untangle the truth from the web; and few in the weariness have the energy to try.
Tomorrow it all begins anew. The sturdy peasantry whipped into new frenzies of fear by the oligarchs, the promise of the old republic kindled in their hearts, the myth of "what was" scribed upon the tablets-- the voice of opposition seems plaintive, the whine of a chained dog, that which was the Law in another time, now, a favored toady, lost somewhere in the endless words its teeth pulled. Slowly the lie pulls on the populace, the honey in its tone as sweet as the devil's own words, insidious is transformed into spontaneous, hatred becomes love--the old song sung from the temple steps, the promises dipped in a sweet wine; words woven to suit the moment. The chained dog whimpers, sniffs the stale air; content with despair, the occasional bone tossed from the banquet table.

Come now! Should we not believe these promises? The nightmare from which we have recently emerged prove their worth. Slander, innuendo, torture, the bodies stacked in the city squares, the Lady clothed in oil and tossed into the sewer.

The question hanging in the air: "Are you revenged as yet?"--the years that slip into decades, the blood carried in buckets by the children at the behest of pudgy little men issuing directives to conceal the actual aims of their schemes. The false prophets permit hate, and promise power--they know that Adam is always innocent and full of desire. The prophet that counseled love as a harder road and that the meek shall inherit the world is put on a war horse and sent to slaughter all those who will not obey. "We are a Christian Nation!" they tell you, and the boys come home in caskets swelling the coffers of the rich--in truth they war upon the wretched and the poor, and preach to you the spreading of the truth, when behind the facade there is only the lie.

Time stands still in the new gospel, we do not walk from place to place, we do not climb the hill. It is always yesterday when we were better than we are; new words are uncrated to explain that what happened didn't really; or that the founders meant to say what they didn't really, and upon that we should all agree or be cast into the outer darkness. The minions of the dark lord counsel conciliation, reconstruction, peace, choice, the progress of the soul--nay nay nay they tell you, we must beat our plowshares into swords and wage war against such infidels as though their blood will expiate our sins. Happy we are in the Lord, yet who profits from our faith? Who is it, in fine clothes, who preaches the doctrine of the righteousness of the rich: has it not always been the priests who take the finest cuts of meat from the altar? Has the king not always paid handsomely for their smooth words?

It is not God who is the disease, but his servants, and they twist the words to serve their own pursuits. God becomes their lackey, and they sell him to the king. Uriah is put in the forefront of the battle, David puts on sackcloth and bows, and Bathsheba's son inherits the throne; with God's blessing.

You have only to open the book to look upon the future of their lies:

15 For behold, I will make you small among the nations,
despised among mankind.
16 The horror you inspire has deceived you,
and the pride of your heart,
you who live in the clefts of the rock,
who hold the height of the hill.
Though you make your nest as high as the eagle’s,
I will bring you down from there,

declares the LORD.

Jeremiah 49

****

The Rise of the Corporate State--Freedom Vs Equality

2009-03-27T13:56:00.004-04:00

http://www.democracynow.org/2009/3/25/aig_and_the_big_takeover_matt

http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/20090318_perp_walks_instead_of_bonuses/

http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/20090401_no_more_refuge_for_scoundrels/

...and on and on ad nauseum. Unfettered capitalism run amok, as it always will do given human nature. Success defined as material gain, or the number dominated by the self. The argument itself governed by the trivial day to day minutiae of acquisition and control. Petty little men with loud voices screaming that the Republic is out of control when it was always so, and should remain so. On either side of the Sword rests the argument of Freedom vs Equality, both seek the good but are incompatible. How is it then that one side demonizes the other? Forsooth, Freedom is narcissistic, and equality coercive. But then, who looks at the bedrock, the foundation of things?--not so many it seems. A few dusty academics, a radical or two unconcerned with consequences, the always emerging dark side spreading like a shadow.

It should be obvious that neither side can be allowed to triumph, or that either side should be suppressed. No faith can be placed in the rule of men, yet the lessons of history teach us that the rule of law degenerates from the constant pressure of ambition. Each of us a tyrant, from order we seek chaos, and from chaos, order; and from each little corner of the empire dictators arise complete with orders for right behaviors and recipes for success, for us, for you, for me, for today--which passes quickly enough.

The age of the nation-state is on its last legs, technology and circumstance has presented ambition with a larger stage, sovereignty and self determination are no longer viable, more and more it will come to be realized that we are all in this together; that it is us and the world that matters, and not the petty ambitions of local demagogues fraught with narcissistic delusions, despite their area of expertise. Another hundred years or so? Give or take. A global constitution that takes the armies away from the pisspot little despots who are feeding the always miserable mob an endless line of bull, regardless once again of their area of expertise, be it real or perceived. It is all in all, who we allow to lead, and that is often a difficult choice, as we cannot know but only guess.

Is one tyranny worse than another? Shall we ask the dead? Which in due time will be ourselves,--I am this, or I am that, or I am virtuous and you are evil. I have noted, in my passage, that to be human is to fail at being Human, except in times of extreme crisis, odd moments when the underlying cause is love, take that how you will.

We fall away from the pursuit of the good, since all in all, we cannot seem to define it, torn as we are between humanism and religion, the spiritual and the material, the empty and the significant. How are we to choose, burdened as we are with existence? What is existence but choice, left or right/ How vain those choices when we have enough to eat, and how ruthless when we do not?

Foolish foolish men! squabbling like dogs over a pile of bones, when of all the creatures that have walked the Earth we are the first to have the capacity to distribute the bones equitably? What is it that gets in the way of all being fed, and clothed and sheltered? Perhaps in truth we are nearer to those dogs than we are to ourselves. Hard men walk among us killing things to raise themselves in their own regard, and it seems that is something we cannot expunge since they too are part of who we are. In the failure of Will civilizations are strangled in their own filth.

At the end of days--be it spiritual or biological--will we have been parasites or symbiotes, scavengers or caretakers? Is our legacy to be, I or we? Sounds simple enough but given the complexity one is faced with the stark realization that in due course all that we are, good and bad will be lost in a dry wind.

The Philosophical Underpinnings of Conservative Thought

2009-03-25T10:57:00.005-04:00

"To understand what is distinctive about today's Republican Party, you first need to know about an obscure and very conservative German political philosopher. His name, however, is not Leo Strauss, who has been widely cited as the intellectual guru of the Bush administration. It belongs, instead, to a lesser known, but in many ways more important, thinker named Carl Schmitt."

Proto-nazi dude. Advocated that the executive should proclaim a permanent state of emergency to rule without restraints---that politics should not be be regarded as dialogue or compromise, but rather as combat in which the opponent is to be destroyed. I have an idea that Karl Rove & John Yoo read him when they were impressionable young boys...

"Liberals think of politics as a means; conservatives as an end. Politics, for liberals, stops at the water's edge; for conservatives, politics never stops. Liberals think of conservatives as potential future allies; conservatives treat liberals as unworthy of recognition. Liberals believe that policies ought to be judged against an independent ideal such as human welfare or the greatest good for the greatest number; conservatives evaluate policies by whether they advance their conservative causes. Liberals instinctively want to dampen passions; conservatives are bent on inflaming them. Liberals think there is a third way between liberalism and conservatism; conservatives believe that anyone who is not a conservative is a liberal. Liberals want to put boundaries on the political by claiming that individuals have certain rights that no government can take away; conservatives argue that in cases of emergency -- conservatives always find cases of emergency -- the reach and capacity of the state cannot be challenged."

http://chronicle.com/cgi2-bin/printable.cgi?article=http://chronicle.com/free/v50/i30/30b01601.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Schmitt

The controversy over the Yoo Memorandums and the Influence of Schmitt---

http://balkin.blogspot.com/2005/11/return-of-carl-schmitt.html

An open Letter To Glenn Beck

2009-03-06T09:30:00.004-05:00

Dear Mr. Beck;

One notes your claim that you are a libertarian--

lib·er·tar·i·an
n.
1. One who advocates maximizing individual rights and minimizing the role of the state.
2. One who believes in free will.

"Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid."

"the belief that human behaviour is an expression of personal choice and is not determined by physical forces, Fate, or God," or Free Will.

Much of what you know is predicated upon that which you think you know, The Greeks defined that as Hubris--which is neither here nor there as you earn a living by preying on fear; another tool in the hands of the demagogues who would strip you of all that which you claim to hold so dear--and when it comes down to it what is that but the size of your bank account--the arbiter of your "safety".

"Tonight, America, here is what you need to know. We have got to make a choice. We are either capitalists or we`re not. We either believe in the free market system or we do not. We can`t play both sides."

::::::

Progressive Democrats instead favored a reserve system owned and operated by the government and out of control of the "money trust", ending Wall Street's control of American currency supply. Conservative Democrats fought for a privately owned, yet decentralized, reserve system, which would still be free of Wall Street's control. The Federal Reserve Act passed Congress in late 1913 on a mostly partisan basis, with most Democrats in support and most Republicans against it.

In 1999, the Financial Services Modernization Act overturned the Glass-Steagall Act of 1933. The Act effectively barred banks, brokerages and insurance companies from entering each others' industries, and separated investment banking and commercial banking. The law was enacted in response to revelations of gross corruption and manipulation of the market by giant banking houses that organized huge corporate mergers for their own profit, leading to the collapse of the stock market in 1929.

The Wall Street Journal celebrated the agreement to end such restrictions with an editorial declaring that the banks had been unfairly scapegoated for the Great Depression. The headline of one Journal article declared, "Finally, 1929 Begins to Fade."

::::

The unleashed and deregulated financial services sector boomed, bringing us the speculative boom that in turn gave us the temporary budget surplus of the late 1990s and the finance-led booms and busts since then. The hedge fund was not invented in the 1990s, but it was under Clinton that they were transformed into their modern form, with the Clinton White House cheerleading that transformation. In 1998, when the hedge fund, Long Term Capital Management, collapsed, leading to federal intervention, the president established the Working Group on Financial Markets. In February 2000, it concluded that hedge funds needed no regulation.

The General Welfare Clause

"Revolution of 1937."

Hughes prevailed on Roberts to desert the Conservative camp, swing over with him and join the three liberals in declaring the social security cases [Steward Machine Co. v. Davis (301 us 548, May 24, 1937)] Constitutional.[4] [P.56] This Roberts did, and by so doing, took the wind from the sails of the President's court packing plan. It went back to committee and died. one Administration official called the court's action, "the switch in time that saved nine."

This decision said in effect, Congress would no longer be held to enumerated powers but instead could tax and spend for anything; so long as it was for "general welfare."

But the words "General Welfare" in the introduction to the enumerated powers of Article I Section 8 were never intended to be an object for extension of the power to tax and spend; and up until the cases noted above, no court ever so averred.[Appx. 1]

The supreme court surrendered to the new deal on the most fundamental of constitutional issues. "it is scarcely conceivable that Chief Justice Hughes and Justice Roberts... were unaware of the political implications of their move. the President had lost a battle but won a war. In a remarkable series of decisions . ..the Court executed the most abrupt change of face in its entire history..."-

:::::::::::

...as tho the nation exists only in the moment of your latest adolescent eruption, that free market you prattle on about--is and always has been, manipulated to suit the needs of the few, not the many. Caesar, Crassus & Pompey--whose petty pauper are you--? Sweet swindles, as they divide the world; as if this nation you whine about actually exists--other than as a faction in the global chaos, and you a sop to the Mob milling about in the forum, Caesar's tame tribune spilling earnest lies.

Oh, how fierce your indignation, at these petty politicians with painted faces, puffing up the Senate steps, papers tucked under their arms, stuffed with peacock wings, and fine wine chilled in the Apennines, bought and paid for, their votes nothing more than an abject acquiesce to the highest bidder in the triumvirate.

Fool, to think your useless prattle matters to the rabid Mob that cares for little more than the next circus or the next sensation in the scheme of things.--

Heinlein:

For when the plebs discover that they can vote themselves bread and circuses without limit and that the productive members of the body politic cannot stop them, they will do so, until the state bleeds to death, or in its weakened condition the state succumbs to an invader--the barbarians enter Rome."
(To Sail Beyond the Sunset, 227)

The ebb and flow transcends the antiquated nation state; Caesar conquers Gaul to add to his coffers;--some years later Charles is crowned in Rome; just before Hamlet the Armada runs aground; new monsters roll across the Ardennes redefining the extent of the civilization, and today sit perched on desolate hilltops surveying a bleak landscape, the Last redoubt against the Beast; and you prattle on about "earmarks" which your master decides should be your latest diatribe to put coins in his basket.

BRUTUS
Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my
cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that
you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and
awake your senses, that you may the better judge.
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of
Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar
was no less than his. If then that friend demand
why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:
--Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live
all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him;
as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was
valiant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious, I
slew him.

ANTONY
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.

:::::::::::::

What then, my friend? Honor or Ambition? How long will it be before the fables are allowed to die? What will you choose as your newest alcohol? How will you know the difference, in the prison of your delusions? Will you champion Sparta, or sleep with oligarchs in Athens? In the end it will not matter much, your lips pressed against the ass of your latest suitor; nor will you, as he strokes your hair, spinning the web of your newest despair; some new whimperings to delight the drunken mob.

Even so, such pretentious preaching will only serve the mob so long, its addled attention soon drawn off to some new atrocity, your mendacity nothing more than the graffiti scrawled upon the wall--the temple was profaned when Gilgamesh was just a boy, or when Achilles sulked in his tent as Agamemnon fondled Briseis as her father moaned to absent gods. Take your meager knowledge to the market to impress young girls--they are always wide eyed at the sight of Heroes, even when they do not know what they are:

from The Sixth Elegy

The hero is strangely close to those who died young. Lasting
doesn’t contain him. Being is his ascent: he moves on,
time and again, to enter the changed constellation
his risk entails. Few could find him there. But
Destiny, that darkly hides us, suddenly inspired,
sings him into the tempest of his onrushing world.
I hear no one like him. All at once I am pierced
by his darkened sound carried on streaming air.

Rilke

2009-03-05T08:48:00.005-05:00

Rove has studied his Orwell and understands that "who controls the past, controls the future."

That's why we saw Rove lambasting Obama's budget deficit, conveniently skipping over the nearly $1.6 trillion added to the deficit by the administration he helped guide. Not one word about the role the massive tax cuts for the rich he championed played in creating the current economic crisis. Not a peep about the deregulation of Wall Street he held so dear.

Indeed, he tried to lay the Bush administration's fiscal legacy at the feet of "two wars, 9/11, and a recession handed to us by the previous administration."

CRAMER: Welcome to the U.S.S.A. In the worst bear market since the Great Depression, we have a president and a Bolshevik -- Democratic Congress that seems oblivious to the rampant wealth destruction that's being caused by their agenda. Or maybe they know and they don't care. Either way, it's important that you Obama-proof your portfolio, or at least make it Obama-resistant, because we know he has both the power and the will to crush entire sectors. Everything from health care to oil and gas to the defense contractors. As if dealing with this garden-variety depression wasn't enough, now you need to protect your money from the expropriator-in-chief.

Limbaugh:

We [conservatives] love and revere our founding documents, the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. We believe that the preamble to the Constitution contains an inarguable truth that we are all endowed by our creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life, Liberty, Freedom. And the pursuit of happiness. Those of you watching at home may wonder why this is being applauded. We conservatives think all three are under assault.

:::::::::::

These Yahoos, and their masters, will indeed do everything within their power to insure that progressive programs fail. The downward spiral will not affect those with the wherewithal to withstand it, the inconvenience, the strong survive, despite their lip service to creationism--their only allegiance is to god, and he is green and looks a lot like George Washington, at least till he tanks and they are forced to convert to a more stable commodity. When we come out the other side, they will be covered in shit, but firmly in control, and all they need to do is sit on their hands as the largesse is thrown at them.

Capitalists are amoral they have no idealogy, other than that which they can buy, or sell. It could be said that most Americans are capitalists, large or small--the almighty buck has been in charge for a long time.

:::::

:::"Republic: Form of government in which a state is ruled by representatives elected by its populace. The term was originally applied to a form of government in which the leader is periodically appointed under a constitution; it was contrasted with governments in which leadership is hereditary. A republic may also be distinguished from direct democracy, though modern representative democracies are by and large republics."

:::"Democracy: democracy [Gr.,=rule of the people], term originating in ancient Greece to designate a government where the people share in directing the activities of the state, as distinct from governments controlled by a single class, select group, or autocrat. The definition of democracy has been expanded, however, to describe a philosophy that insists on the right and the capacity of a people, acting either directly or through representatives, to control their institutions for their own purposes. Such a philosophy places a high value on the equality of individuals and would free people as far as possible from restraints not self-imposed. It insists that necessary restraints be imposed only by the consent of the majority and that they conform to the principle of equality.":::

:::::

Therein lies the basic division between the Democratic & Republican parties. The former tends to the egalitarian & the latter towards the creation of a ruling class.
One may immediately see that the system in the United States tends to give the Republican viewpoint an advantage in that the structure set up by the Constitution favors a representative government; which over time has fostered a ruling elite regardless of party affiliation.

A second division lies in the approach to the redistribution of wealth. Broadly, the republicans favor the wealth remaining in the hands of the few, postulating that they can be trusted to redistribute it for the benefit of all, while the democrats favor the idea that the government should be trusted to redistribute it equitably. Both viewpoints seem inevitably flawed--and indeed the major dilemma of government in the US is just what to do with the money, a wheelbarrow full for this, a truckload for that; or the reverse should you belong to the opposition.

At the present time--we are on course for a civil war & a great depression combined over this very issue, the republican partnership with the corporation or the democratic distrust of the corporation. One leads to a fascist symbiosis, the other to a socialist state. For the most part, America waffles between the two, unable to choose--Teddy Roosevelt went after the big trusts in the early part of the last century, and Franklin instituted the "New Deal"--it should be noted that Teddy got tossed out of the Republican party, and that Franklin changed the role of US government irrevocably--as the republicans are only now beginning to realize.

What the Founders understood was that no-one is to be trusted, not individuals, not companies, not religious institutions, and not the arms of the government they themselves were setting up, and they therefore set everyone against everyone in a perpetual free-for-all that would continue as long as the Constitution itself was the final determining factor, and because of the faction inherent in the system the constitution would endure because no-one could afford to set it aside.

At least not yet--as the this last most recent attack upon it has shown.

Cartoon Figures---

2009-03-03T13:36:00.006-05:00

"What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny "failed to take into account man's almost infinite appetite for distractions." In 1984, Orwell added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we desire will ruin us."

--Neil Postman;"Amusing Ourselves to Death;"1985.

::::

We have a national spotlight, rather more like a searchlight really, it is constantly on swinging to and fro, examining, scrutinizing--a long litany of ills can be attributed to it, from 'Triumph of the Will' to the latest "Joe the plumber". It would seem that even with the best of intentions, the reduction of three dimensions to two creates a separate reality that necessarily subtracts from an essential humanity.

Broadly, the problem is not the not realbut rather the idea of an almost real; that is the spill over, the inability to distinguish between realities, that of fact, and that of illusion.

It would be necessary for this discussion to note that we are not dealing here with literature or cinema, which though pertinent to the argument in the larger sense, do not deal with the flow of information necessary to decisions which should be based on accuracy. What we receive is filtered, shaded, even suppressed, and of course manipulated to fit the needs of the searchlight which feeds on conflict. We are served personality, which is more easily digested than numbers, and drama, which is more entertaining than the gritty theory which the numbers are fed into--

Capital must create more capital; inevitably, it seems to flow inward, becoming ever more concentrated, thus the outlets for the control of information must also constrict to perpetuate and protect the system. It might be noted, that the only industry that seems immune to the boom and bust inherent in the capitalist model is the entertainment business, it has no top end, no saturation point, money can be continually pumped into it with relative security as regards the possibility of loss. It is not surprising then that actual News is on the decline; it has become irrelevant, devoid of the necessary angst, unprofitable. Unless packaged adroitly, it is a distraction from the real purpose, the manufacture of profitable personality which a potential viewer will "invest" time in.

Thus, what is said is subordinate to who says it. Who trusts the sayer, and who does not becomes that sayers demographic--the larger the demographic the more valuable the sayer: regardless of the veracity of what is said.

A person who wishes to know, rather than just be fed, must stumble through the forest blindly, hoping to fall into something of value. Opinions from one side of the aisle or the other have little validity as they reflect only the interest of the corporate entity promoting them. It is not easy to escape from Motive, be it monetary or more nakedly in the Will to Power.

The power to know is dangerous; and an actual ability to know anything in the morass of misinformation is nearly impossible; and will in the course of time become even more so, the casualty is history which can no distinguish what actually happened, from what was said to have happened.

Further adventures in Quantum Poetics.

2009-02-19T16:11:00.004-05:00

it was unsaid, walking into the cave

pale, skinny chest puffed out, regulated.

not here not here in the rat's lair the sound

of dripping water upon ear, Antigone's

dried bones rattling in the dark. A quorum,

sharp teeth sunk in wet loins while the shadows\

look on, an aperitif of flesh, lustrous

in gloom. Those skulls were heroes once, maidens

with soft breasts, old men with bent canes, crones. Chill

between slick thighs will be licked off, back pressed

against wall knees high, rain is only a note

in the song; brittle limbs broken in time

the incessant drip the sun that neither

rises nor falls in eyes that are not here.

On the Nature Of Certainty

2009-02-18T13:54:00.005-05:00

In this very uncertain world, there are an awful of people who are certain of things. This is that, or that is this, or this is diametrically opposed to that. Despite all we know, we really know very little. How to put our pants on maybe. Friend of mine once related a tale to me: seems he was an artillery man in Nam, and he was sleeping one night when his base came under attack--he allowed that he was fully dressed and on his way to his post ten seconds after the first shell hit, never asked him if he tied his boots, passed on now, shoddy work of the VA carried him away--yeh, but in times of stress I guess we know how to put on our pants.

We are entering a brave new world; how may we certain that this theory is any better than the one it debunks? How long will it be before the parameters change; the stars shift?

No, it doesn't matter what theory, we have theories for everything--the computers leave us with a range of probabilities and we just rearrange the facts to fit the current condition, or at least as many of the facts as we can fit into an incomplete and fragmentary picture.--watching the detectives, they often say, "it's all we got to go on--sanitized for public viewing they never smoke anymore--another subtle hint for acceptable behavior, another subject--

One recalls reading the Foundation trilogy--Hari Selden's invention of Psychohistory, and the second Foundation's refinement of the data over a millennium--the project's purpose, of course, was to predict the the future history of the Galactic Empire through the movement of a vast number of people. Even so, the data was incomplete, errors could occur...

Our confrontation today, well, at least mine--is with Economics, Politics & Art, specifically poetry; and I for one, know so little about them that it would be best if I just crawled back in the cave and pulled the bearskin over my head. I should note here, that it would have been my step-dad that killed that bear, if I were confronted by such a fearsome beast, I fear the outcome would be somewhat different.

Through the good graces of our various magic boxes we are indeed bombarded each day with certainties,--yet those same certainties have led us to the brink of Armageddon rather than the steps to the gates of Eden. Something has gone awry. It would seem the experts know more than they are telling us, or they know very little at all.

"No, that's not what I meant at all, I was not sure of things, and really, it just seemed to be that be that way, at the time."

When I was a boy, over in Dogtown, I'd go up to old Earl's and listen to the old men sitting around the Burnside, spitting, telling lies and cussing the politicians. They'd all been union men, democrats and John L. Lewis was a god--one of Grandpa's favorite stories was the time he'd met John L. up in Brownton when the union was first getting going, "shook his hand," he'd always say. They was certain of God, though they weren't very good Christians, certain of the union, punching the chicken on the ballot, and damned certain every politician that had ever been born was going to pick your pocket. Back then, having only one tv channel, and having Uncle Pete as both news anchor and kiddie show host wasn't quite enough to affect the way you behaved; so I hung out with them old guys and probably learned a lot of things I shouldn't have. I suppose, through everything because of that, I have a few certainties of my own deep down inside, one's you might say as I keep for my own.

"There's nothing better that 250 mics of good acid to kick start the cosmic coonhunt for Enlightenment. It takes juice. After all sonny boy, you don't knock down stars with a bee bee gun."
-- Mad Dog Howard, Hippie Doper/Philosopher
http://www.joebageant.com/joe/

Yeh, all that was later on, something about it--where you came to a rockhard place that you knew you were going to and the Great Game was laid bare. Kinda pointless here, to try and illuminate the motel rooms, the neon, the flimsy walls and the animals--but it was what it was at the time: The whole damn world as a charnel house; everything bleeding & breeding and dying--ancient visions now, and prophesies that saw way down deep at the seams of things. I looked at the Nature of things and who we are, and was amazed at the veneer which we use to cover it up. That is another certainty which came along; I suppose if I could translate it, it might be helpful, but I reckon that particular certainty can't be taught or bought or stole.

It was round about that time, I decided I was going to be a poet--Dave's fault really, he wrote about the wheel of life in a little poem, and I was astounded, got lost in a fever from which I have never escaped, and have been lost in the uncertainty of certainty ever since. Damndest thing about it is, you have to learn all this stuff, (damn near everything) just so you can write about that which you cannot know; and that's the easy part. Damn silly thing to want to be in the first place--quite vogue these days; the net is crawling with "poets". There are some commitments you can't escape, yet all the wanting in the world won't make you what you want to be; that may or may not come along after you are gone, and by then I don't suppose it will matter much, now will it. Turns out, I was never much good at making a living anyways so it was just as well I wrote things down. Point is--I was certain that is what I wanted to be, since nothing else made any sense; everything I learned from that point on had no practical purpose, it was simply grist for the mill, stuff to be sifted through for the next poem.

Whatever other certainties I acquired, I applied to that. Studied philosophy from Thales to Sartre, dumped most because the next one proved the last one wrong, History from the Nile Valley to the second world war, literature from Homer to Ginsburg. Came away from that with a few things--Birth death rebirth, the absurd, and the dialectic--which seemed reasonable to me. I rejected the formal, preferring instead to see in each finished poem a form. To me the formal structures lacked weight, they determined, not allowed. (many consider a mastery of the forms as liberating, but that is not my view.)At any rate, I determined that I would find my own way through the maze; and that is not so easy as it sounds; everything you read sends you to the next one you will read and certainty about anything retreats ever further away.--Nowadays, and I suppose it was always true, though I cannot be certain of this--most folks will have you do something in one particular fashion; because it is their way, and therefore it is the correct way. Put the square a sixteenth of an inch longer than it should be, and maybe it will come out right, whatever it is, it's a feel for the the thing that matters and that's something you can't be certain of no matter how sure you are that you got it right.

The Case for a Fascist society

2009-02-14T14:32:00.007-05:00

It seems to me a natural outgrowth of declining Imperium. A loss of control sociologically combined with the most powerful armed force ever known on the planet, and an economy on the verge of complete collapse--makes for a compelling scenario...

We note some differences in the modern Fascism of the Repukes and Neo-Cons--

The first is the largely Jewish makeup of the shadow leadership of the movement: although I am perplexed over whether that has any material relationship to the actual events which seem to be transpiring. Guess that will have to be left to the more paranoid of the conspiracy theorists; they could just as well be Baptists, Presbyterians--more about preserving an aggressive foothold in the Middle East than any thing else, I suppose.

The second is "the use of "champions of law, order, Christian morality, and the sanctity of private property" as ploys rather than principles--as a means to power, propaganda to advance the merger of economics & politics.

the third and most important point where they diverge is in the emergence of "The Leader" principle, until that transpires, that is, until they find a Charismatic leader they cannot move forward. Everything in the Fascist State must revolve around a leader, Fascism cannot function by committee.

________________________________________________________________________________

"Forerunners of fascism, such as Georges Boulanger in France and Adolf Stöker and Karl Lueger in Germany and Austria, in their efforts to gain political power played on people's fears of revolution with its subsequent chaos, anarchy, and general insecurity. They appealed to nationalist sentiments and prejudices, exploited anti-Semitism, and portrayed themselves as champions of law, order, Christian morality, and the sanctity of private property."

"The greatest principle of all is that nobody, whether male or female, should be without a leader. Nor should the mind of anybody be habituated to letting him do anything at all of his own initiative; neither out of zeal, nor even playfully. But in war and in the midst of peace - to his leader he shall direct his eye and follow him faithfully. And even in the smallest matter he should stand under leadership. For example, he should get up, or move, or wash, or take his meals . . only if he has been told to do so, by long habit, never to dream of acting independently, and to become utterly incapable of it."

-Karl R. Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies, Vol I The Spell of Plato, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969, p. 7

* "The Cult of Tradition", combining cultural syncretism with a rejection of modernism (often disguised as a rejection of capitalism).
* "The Cult of Action for Action's Sake", which dictates that action is of value in itself, and should be taken without intellectual reflection. This, says Eco, is connected with anti-intellectualism and irrationalism, and often manifests in attacks on modern culture and science.
* "Disagreement is Treason" - fascism devalues intellectual discourse and critical reasoning as barriers to action.
* "Fear of Difference", which fascism seeks to exploit and exacerbate, often in the form of racism or an appeal against foreigners and immigrants.
* "Appeal to a Frustrated Middle Class", fearing economic pressure from the demands and aspirations of lower social groups.
* "Obsession With a plot" and the hyping-up of an enemy threat. This often involves an appeal to xenophobia or the identification of an internal security threat. He cites Pat Robertson's book The New World Order as a prominent example of a plot obsession.
* "Pacifism is Trafficking With the Enemy" because "Life is Permanent Warfare" - there must always be an enemy to fight.
* "Contempt for the Weak" - although a fascist society is elitist, everybody in the society is educated to become a hero.
* "Selective Populism" - the People have a common will, which is not delegated but interpreted by a leader. This may involve doubt being cast upon a democratic institution, because "it no longer represents the Voice of the People".
* "Newspeak" - fascism employs and promotes an impoverished vocabulary in order to limit critical reasoning.

Umberto Eco; Essay, "Eternal fascism;" 1995

Thus, the Communist Third International published the following definition:
“ Fascism in power is the open, terroristic dictatorship of the most reactionary, the most chauvinistic, the most imperialistic elements of finance capitalism.

The historic function of fascism is to smash the working class, destroy its organizations, and stifle political liberties when the capitalists find themselves unable to govern and dominate with the help of democratic machinery. ”

— Leon Trotsky, Fascism: What it is and how to fight it

1. Right Wing: Fascists are fervently against: Marxism, Socialism, Anarchism, Communism, Environmentalism; etc – in essence, they are against the progressive left in total, including moderate lefts (social democrats, etc). Fascism is an extreme right wing ideology, though it can be opportunistic.
2. Nationalism: Fascism places a very strong emphasis on patriotism and nationalism. Criticism of the nation's main ideals, especially war, is lambasted as unpatriotic at best, and treason at worst. State propaganda consistently broadcasts threats of attack, while justifying pre-emptive war. Fascism invariably seeks to instill in its people the warrior mentality: to always be vigilant, wary of strangers and suspicious of foreigners.
3. Hierarchy: Fascist society is ruled by a righteous leader, who is supported by an elite secret vanguard of capitalists. Hierarchy is prevalent throughout all aspects of society – every street, every workplace, every school, will have its local Hitler, part police-informer, part bureaucrat – and society is prepared for war at all times. The absolute power of the social hierarchy prevails over everything, and thus a totalitarian society is formed. Representative government is acceptable only if it can be controlled and regulated, direct democracy (e.g. Communism) is the greatest of all crimes. Any who oppose the social hierarchy of fascism will be imprisoned or executed.
4. Anti-equality: Fascism loathes the principles of economic equality and disdains equality between immigrant and citizen. Some forms of fascism extend the fight against equality into other areas: gender, sexual, minority or religious rights, for example.
5. Religious: Fascism contains a strong amount of reactionary religious beliefs, harking back to times when religion was strict, potent, and pure. Nearly all Fascist societies are Christian, and are supported by Catholic and Protestant churches.
6. Capitalist: Fascism does not require revolution to exist in capitalist society: fascists can be elected into office (though their disdain for elections usually means manipulation of the electoral system). They view parliamentary and congressional systems of government to be inefficient and weak, and will do their best to minimize its power over their policy agenda. Fascism exhibits the worst kind of capitalism where corporate power is absolute, and all vestiges of workers' rights are destroyed.
7. War: Fascism is capitalism at the stage of impotent imperialism. War can create markets that would not otherwise exist by wreaking massive devastation on a society, which then requires reconstruction! Fascism can thus "liberate" the survivors, provide huge loans to that society so fascist corporations can begin the process of rebuilding.
8. Voluntarist Ideology: Fascism adopts a certain kind of “voluntarism;” they believe that an act of will, if sufficiently powerful, can make something true. Thus all sorts of ideas about racial inferiority, historical destiny, even physical science, are supported by means of violence, in the belief that they can be made true. It is this sense that Fascism is subjectivist.
9. Anti-Modern: Fascism loathes all kinds of modernism, especially creativity in the arts, whether acting as a mirror for life (where it does not conform to the Fascist ideal), or expressing deviant or innovative points of view. Fascism invariably burns books and victimizes artists, and artists which do not promote the fascists ideals are seen as “decadent.” Fascism is hostile to broad learning and interest in other cultures, since such pursuits threaten the dominance of fascist myths. The peddling of conspiracy theories is usually substituted for the objective study of history.[24]

---Fascism entry in the Encyclopedia of Marxism

1984

2009-02-11T07:39:00.004-05:00

One looks at our modern world askance--

We can no longer look ahead with any confidence; the forces of freedom and equality have both failed primarily it would seem because of the economic strain which permeates both of them. Alas, Man must have commerce--he must work. At this point in time the world becomes a factory, nothing more than a repository of raw material that sustains our activity. Whatever else may be said of it, this world is finite: much of what sustains us has already been ripped from her bowels. Progress is still viable, but the idea of growth is a noose around our necks.

Fostered by the economic elitist who finds significance only in acquisition this pernicious doctrine of growth has led us to a cul-de-sac from which our whole civilization must be rethought. Profit can no longer be the primary motive; the illusion of "ownership" must be set aside. It must be recognized that greed wherever opportunity exists is the primary motivation in the way our society is structured today.

We are caught between the individual and collectivism, and on both ends of the spectrum the dialectic seems to be the rise of the corporate state; that is, the economic and political spheres are combined into one entity. What sort of tyranny we may expect from this development remains to be seen, though the oppression of the many by the few is a likely outgrowth, given our history.--As an aside, one might note that oppression need not be belligerent, a seemingly benign one works just as well and is even more insidious, leading as it does to a content populace which resists change, until the dominant minority oversteps its bounds, and even then years of inertia hampers any sort of rapid response--

What rises in reaction to the emergence of The Corporate State, which given our History must arise? The union is outlawed, at best under constant attack, and discredited; its members portrayed as reactionary--disloyal to the good of the company; religion is displaced as the dispenser of the Good, all sustenance resides in the generosity of the company, good behavior i.e. obedience, is rewarded by the company, and bad behavior casts one into the darkness of unperson--

What then arises to oppose this conglomerate incipient world state?

It may take various ideological stances depending upon its local necessities, indeed it may not have any clear cut ideology, it exists to oppose--the local papers define it as "terrorism"--tho its practitioners may view themselves differently, ranging from revolutionary to holy warrior to freedom fighter. Depends upon your point of view I suppose; or who signs your paycheck if at this point in time that can be distinguished. Either way, as Orwell pointed out, the State must have an enemy to distract internal dissent.

As I began so I must conclude, askance--

For the "Terrorist" to be effective he must be armed, to be armed he must wield the fruits of the corporate state, that is to say he must be supplied by his enemy. Victory is not the goal, conflict is. Only through conflict can the dialectic be held in stasis, the ideological underpinnings of the corporate state will not stand scrutiny since that basis is only the perpetuation of a dominant minority which has endured since the dawn of the neolithic age.

How do we define madness, and who is it exactly who is mad?

Birth, Death and Rebirth

2009-02-08T12:11:00.003-05:00

Still, no matter what Obama does, even in making the finest of choices, somebody’s ox is going to be gored. Especially in a country whose economy and sense of identity is driven by a ridiculous infantile and pointless lifestyle of gadgets,20fads and flatulence. In other words, somebody is not going to get their goddamned pony for Christmas and be pissed as hell. Which makes them prime fodder for demagogues and profiteering corporate sharks.---Joe Baigent

"Goethe(who, With Nietzsche, was Spenglers leading inspiration, as he was also Thomas Mann's) in a brief study called "Epochs of the Spirit" had outlined, already at the opening of the nineteenth century (1817), a sequence of four stages normal to all culture cycles, whether of mankind in general, a civilization, or a nation, which he then summarized in the following diagram:

Beginnings

I Poetry folk Belief Hearty Imagination

II Theology Idealizing Holy Reason
Exaltation

III Philosophy Clarifying Wise Understanding
Devaluation

IV Prose Dissolution Vulgar Sensuality
in Banality

On the 4th Epoch--

This epoch cannot last long. Human need, aggravated by the course of history, leaps backward over intelligent leadership, confuses priestly, folk, and primitive beliefs, grabs now here, now there, at traditions, submerges itself in mysteries, sets fairy tales in the place of poetry, and elevates these to articles of belief. Instead of intelligently instructing and quietly influencing, people now strew seeds and weeds together indiscriminately on all sides; no central point is offered anymore on which to concentrate, but every odd individual steps forward as leader and teacher, and gives forth his perfect folly as a perfected whole.

And so, the force of every mystery is undone, the peoples religion itself is profaned; distinctions that formerly grew from each other in natural development now work against each other as contradictory elements, and thus we have the Tohu-wa-Bohu chaos again: but not the first, gravid, fruitful one, rather, a dying one running to decay, from which not even the spirit of God could create for itself a worthy world.
--Campbell, Creative Mythology, pp. 378-379

See:

Goethe, in "Geistes-Epochen," Sammatliche Werke (1853), Vol 3, pp.327-330
Thomas Mann, Der Zauberberg, (Berlin: S. Fischer Verlag, (1924), pp. 526-528, abridged, English transl. by H.T. Lowe-Porter, The Magic Mountain (New York, Knopf, (1927), pp. 510-511

Yes, of course, imaginative chicanery dug up from the ignorant and innocent past; then again one hopes that you are not missing the latest episode of Desperate Hosewives, or the oracle wherein the ultimate fighter is crowned again this week.--

Be content. Be happy. Despite the isolation, the loneliness and alienation which permeates everything that is touched. Be obedient to your switches and knobs, fill out your registration forms and keep a copy for yourself in the unlikely event that a record will be lost. Be diligent, work hard, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain creating the great Oz, for he is you, whitewashing the old fence over and over again. Swathed in illusion from the cradle to the grave, safe and saved by one creed or another until nothing can be discerned in the yellow fog descending.

Slowly it permeates the whole. The realization that this life you've lived is not your own, bits of it sold, some given away, some stolen, who knows? You want it back but its gone. --one narcotic or another is provided depending on the severity of the malaise, physicians clothed in gold guide you through white halls to the proper treatment areas, should your status merit such consideration, otherwise you are herded with the rest of the mob into long lines to receive injections that will render you harmless until your next premium is due.

At this point, each essential truth is examined and denied. Truth itself is pointed out as a caricature, "life is a joke, and the joke is on you;" sums up "Being and Nothingness," and the world grinds on, host to a motley crew. We founder aimlessly, pinballs bouncing between lights, moths drawn to one flame or another, leaves caught in an uncertain wind. Each succeeding anchor made of sand melts away.

Helplessly we grovel in the entrails of the machine; our hope being that the Collective Will will overcome inertia and erupt erecting barricades and smashing the shop windows once and for all dumping the manikins into the streets so that they can be burned and we can bask in the heat.--Yet the seed says, "Let me me be safe, until I am gone," then the revolution can burn the house to the ground, and the anger gnaws like the fox in a trap who leaves his paw behind to rid himself of the constriction.

Take heed of the Parthenon on the Acropolis, The Colosseum in the heart of Rome--
those who wander in our ruins will find that Myth & poetry in our accomplishments just as well, that Atlantis which rose and fell when the world was cool and abundant; that learned time when men sat about the colonnades in the evening shade and debated Birth, Death, and Rebirth but did not hear the voice inside.

Sorrowful Beings----Discussions

2009-02-06T07:58:00.005-05:00

Neon people remove bindings
resemble shadows
bent in angles. They ask,
is gray black?

The dog brings tidings;
the vulture is left with the leavings

Babel is choked with rising smoke
a ritual of angels
music to collide between rests;
geared time fades on the parchment:
morning midday and evening,

night. Gold silver gray and black
tinted by the angel’s roving finger

Mygod is left inside insidious.
hammer falling on iron
the sculptures are deaf
prophets no longer breathe
what spins spins ever faster-

Old Scratch dazed in the field fire
gargoyle in Neon, the poet’s pen-

next or next in ash wood mixed with oil
imprint on shadows
absent of color
flowing.

The first discussion--Portraits.

What if they killed everyone
rather
than just the ones
they told you
came to steal the children
in the night,

and then he said,

each thief must earn his place at the table.
He said it twice
so it must have been important,

...even more of the drab meater
between worlds
as he was held
by another illicit lover

or how faces coalesce
when under siege;

he knew they had some left
she just hadn’t told him

how much.

The city kept exploding like a flashbulb.

First Discussion--Angels

It was not to hurt too much
to set such gravity aside,

days that pass sweetly
the old man climbing the stone step-

as yet they must be so-

the keys used for the old door
clanking
on his hips
like coins too heavy to bear.
Vespers
the bells are muffled by distance;

in the parchments are words
shuffled they may become
legions, an essence of nether worlds,--

in the rafters the pigeons stare uncertainly
certain of the bond

that the old man scratches at,
the keys tossed on the old table
on which the parchments lie.

1st Discussion-Demons

It’s true,
that even in Winter, she would,
walk down the path to the garden

seeking blooms
her hands often trailing in the frost,
bits of the morning lost
I suppose,
bruised at the touch of petals.

who would fear
death by water
in this day & age
when the barks creak together
so harmoniously,

comfortably

between Autumn & Spring
when fire cracks in the evening?

The spider’s web
is long abandoned
a tiny twig spins
in a cold wind.

2nd Discussion--Earth

Why does she wait?
For what?--

In Odessa by the sea
the tenements stink of urine,
The churn of the water
kisses the rock strewn shore with spray.

Churn. Why does she wait?

In Odessa by the sea
Apollo tunes his lyre,
heartbeats;
rain & occasional sunlight,

lovers settle in the wasteland
fingers wet
with singing flesh,

the grotto moans with their weight,
from both worlds free,
enslaved to love;

Stephen says,
“this supreme quality is felt
by the artist when the esthetic quality
is first conceived in his imagination;”
picking his teeth with a wounded match

still, she will wait
bent under went sky
bruised by callous light
churned lovers
displayed
chopped off
white disarrayed
spent
august between infinities--

too much to bear,
they say being god by turns
in Odessa as the sea churns
one less wave subtracted.

2nd Discussion--tat tvam asi
“Life, like a dome of many colored glass
stains the white radiance of Eternity”
---Shelly

Small twigs
like fearsome beasts
peek above the water rocking--

Beyond, the fog is a white wall,
hiding the island of Avalon,

the mountain where Dioce nestles
the long valley of Byzantium,

and more besides,

I bathe in cold water
listening for the rustle of your silks,
your hot breath

the coracle rides on gentle waves,
my pole is a twisted vine
the white wall
towers into the sky;

we may follow the shore,
knowing that it lies,
or pierce the wall
and leave such concerns behind--

all that was
fading in the wake.

2nd discussion--Theory

Herein lies the fact:
within the mime
beneath the rumble of his mind

Chaos tends her garden
just as she always has;
each bean divides half way to the end of time.

“Oh, Mother please just let me be
dangling at the end with a rope
my throat sore
the juncture of my motive
worn & cold
the wind of all this noise
passed within my years,”

“skip this blue for rose”
she says fading
sowing the beans
on the stage
where the mind finds himself
abruptly,
coughing.

Discussion three--Texture

The matrix sags where I stand
over time I shall become lighter
sleep with Faust on the cathedral steps,
carry Isolt's veil,
climb upon the angel’s lap
steal feathers from his wings
and read him childrens tales;

Delayed us all,
this wicked gravity hung about the hall
with gaunt men watching the smoke fall;

I lean crossways writing obituaries
with a pen
my clothes are loose
like a shroud
my hands are long and pale,
the air is stale and hangs about too long,

the devils in my dreams carry nets
and scream,

I deem myself too heavy
turn sideways and slip through the cracks.
In the dust
there are papers scattered about
husks of dry thought
mutters or whispers
you decide which.

Discussion 3--Laughter.

bedlam, white foot
in yellow sandal, the sea
tangled in nets, snow
in deep valleys waits for spring.
trapped in corners
in the angles as words explode,
implode those eyes, corrode
the walls of sanctum
given over to the holy war

“I is I, mastuh” divine,
somewhere along the way
someone surely--
the crash of metal chairs
sliding across the parquet floor
an echo of loud smiles;

The Centurion wipes his grizzled beard
of stale wine in the sea of murderous glances,
“how brave this sanity” says the decorator
changing drapes yet again, glowing in starlight
as algae shrinks
on the bottom of the window sill;

what matter the shape of the mirror, Horatio,
if Alice were blind-
each copy bled to a startling paleness
blurred edges in those same angles.
Still it pushed its way through,
groveling
pitiful in its plea.

Discussion 3--Dog

In the dark, Finn
fiddles with his hard-on,
depicting shadows on membrane;
expanding
he counts cunt hairs
in preparation for eternity.

here he is sleeping, here he is,
beside me she says,
next to fresh meat and clear water,

thus that piercing cruelty
will taste sweet when he wakes
when he wakes with a dry tongue
and a bright sword
reflecting the dog star
and the emptiness between.

here is my daughter says the star
wide awake beneath the night sky
wide she is against the earth
and Finn sleeps on
his ardor creased on the edge of the sword--

The splash was ever more bold
than a nick from a boar--

the hound in the distance on a false trail
while Finn dreams the world.

The Gloved Hand---

2009-02-06T07:43:00.000-05:00

The only card we had was our humanity. Our dedication to the rule of law, and the rights of Man.

We tossed it back into the deck, and descended to the level of our adversary. It is a War of Ideas, not casualties, not attacks and counter attacks--we were wrong from the outset, and we are still wrong today. Every action we have taken has only reinforced the position of Al Qaida in the Muslim world, unprovoked invasion, rendition, torture, the denial of basic human rights. Put yourself in the shoes of a young Muslim throwing rocks at tanks in Gaza, or Beirut, Kabul, or Bagdad--madness, an idiotic useless madness. One that will not depart soon--

Cheney:

The choice, he alleged, reflects a naive mindset among the new team in Washington: “The United States needs to be not so much loved as it needs to be respected. Sometimes, that requires us to take actions that generate controversy. I’m not at all sure that that’s what the Obama administration believes.”

No, we need not be loved, but respect is not gained by fear, or by ignoring our own principles. If, indeed, we have any anymore, other than our own fear, and our greed.

I would submit that our world stands upon a precipice, environmentally, economically, and sociologically. None of which will be solved by tanks, missiles, or boots on the ground. I rather doubt the leadership of Al Qaida even undertook any serious plans to attack the United States since the events of 9/11, that action itself unleashed the exact response they were looking for--the naked fist of the beast smashing everything in its path.

Like I said, we tossed the only card we had, and it read compassion.

Harlequin

2008-10-16T11:34:00.000-04:00

What becomes of the prey,
silk in the seams of the harlequin's gown,
as though the angel might be induced to smile

they become scarce
emeralds into broaches
the accompaniment of bird
song,

the clown tumbling in a mauve landscape.

II.

Likkered up he ain’t no poem,
is: the hawk distended fells
the sparrow in open air
ordination in the village
with high song
continues
fraught with the Widow’s final rites
some years hence;

the boy’s gray hair sparse and disheveled
in the wind-
the low orbit of the hawk
will carry him screaming over the earth.

III.

Set against the wall of the angel
it must void itself,
mark the trail of the sparrow flailing
leave its worth in unsaying
particular or worse
in the shoals where the rocks are sharp
and blood is dispersed.

had the angel spoken
leisure would be at hand-
the sparrow safe upon the widow’s shoulder

a word
to shatter ill-kept stars
shuddering to an end
a calliope no longer shouldering the wind;

the owned word listless with praise
broken
sun raised
a blood salt
ungiven to pain
the harlequin tumbles in plain sight
soundless
in the eye of the hawk.

IV.

Set against silence
the eye world does not blink
turbulence shears the blood
the pink foam laughing
seeds the sea,

The leaf falls
lovers seat themselves in coves
the beaten flesh endures
coveting words,

the widow’s web
a bridge to soar upon
while the hawk weaves
between the threads
his wings outspread.

A Modest Analysis:

2008-10-16T09:10:00.001-04:00

"In a system...where the entire continuity of the...process rests upon credit, a crisis must obviously occur -- a tremendous rush for means of payment -- when credit suddenly ceases and only cash payments have validity. At first glance, therefore, the whole crisis seems to be merely a credit and money crisis. And in fact it is only a question of the convertibility of bills of exchange into money. But the
majority of these bills represent actual sales and purchases, whose extension far beyond the needs of society is, after all, the basis of the whole crisis. At the same time, an enormous quantity of these bills of exchange represents plain swindle, which now reaches the light of day and collapses; furthermore, unsuccessful speculation with the capital of other people; finally, commodity-capital which has depreciated or is completely unsaleable, or returns that can never more be realized again. The entire artificial system of forced expansion of the economy cannot, of course, be remedied by having some bank, like the Bank of England, give to all the swindlers the deficient capital by means of its paper and having it buy up all the depreciated commodities at their old nominal values. Incidentally, everything here appears distorted, since in this paper world, the real price and its real basis appear nowhere, but only bullion, metal coin, notes, bills
of exchange, securities. Particularly in centers where the entire money business of the country is concentrated, like London ...the entire process becomes incomprehensible."

-- Karl Marx's Capital, Volume 3, Chapter 30, "Money-Capital and Real Capital", 1867.

The Bankers

2008-10-04T09:54:00.003-04:00

"The Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act, also known as the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Financial Services Modernization Act, Pub.L. 106-102, 113 Stat. 1338, enacted 1999-11-12, is an Act of the United States Congress which repealed part of the Glass-Steagall Act, opening up competition among banks, securities companies and insurance companies."

old Uncle Ezra says--

"I have of course never said that cash is constant
(Douglas) and in fact the population (Britain 1914)
was left with 800 millions of "deposits"
after all the cash had been drawn, and
these deposits were satisfied by the
printing of treasury notes."

...he goes on, that was some years ago in a canto. Mad as a hatter, so they say, Uncle Ez, going on and on about the bankers, and Greed. 'Course everyone knows Bankers are not greedy, that's why they're bankers, and not lawyers running for office.

Everybody knows how to fix this thing. --Some say it has already been fixed by the Bankers and the lawyers who have gotten into Office.--Others say they have gone about it the wrong way; others that it ought to stay broke cause there ain't no fixin it anyways.

Didya ever shake up a soda and take the cap off?

Be a shame to lose all this ease and convenience, phoning in your prescription on your Medicare card; watching old movies on tv when you are half asleep, or reading the bad news on your computer screen and weeping.

"Trust no-one, little marmoset." That's what Herod told Claudius upon his ascension to the Imperium, well according to Mr. Graves. Seems like someone forgot that in the maze of contracts, the blind alleys and paper shuffling. Another thing about it is the infantile mandate, "I want", but that sandbox is already full of discarded toys, lumps of coal pretending to be diamonds, garages full of Things that haven't been seen for years.

So we'll have a yard sale they say! Biggest in years--

"I have lost the cutting but apparently
such things do still happen, he
suicided outside her door while
the family was preparing her body for burial
and she knew this was the case."

...Uncle Ez a few lines earlier. Ain't it amazing how the tone can change?

Let's just look at all this: first they pass that above law so the bankers can get into real estate from front to back--then they sell a lot of it so the price goes up on their papers, then the deal goes south and the paper they got is worthless so they sell it to the government and now they are going to buy it back with the government money and then resell it as the price begins to climb? (This is called a Crisis, since if they don't get their way they sell stock in a frenzy, and withold their cash from the market). Don't matter to the little guy he's burnt from asshole to elbow anyways, cause he thought he was getting over in the first place.

Yeppie doodles. Uncle Ez says somewhere that the first thing people should learn is Economics. Some folks think they do.--Seems to me the first law you gotta learn, is where to hide the money. Poor folk don't get much practice at that, the money being mostly gone by the time they get it. It doesn't really matter how much they give you in Mr. Marx's labor pool, they find a way to get it back from you before you even know you had it. That's probably the second law they teach in Economic school. The third is to say even less than a politician is apt to which isn't a lot so just write out the check.

I know some places back in the hills where money has always been in short supply. The good times was back in the day when you could get government checks for babies, and the only thing wrong with the Cadillac on blocks in the backyard was a busted waterpump. Things change; though I don't suppose babies are in short supply, you can't even find the waterpump on a Caddy anymore, not that it matters to the Bankers, or the lawyers who got into office they'll just buy a new one with their government check.

Armageddon

2008-10-03T18:56:00.001-04:00

Everywhere there is the call to Action; yet the great mass does not move. It seems frozen in place. Waiting. The crisis, if upon us, seems hollow, distant. When will it come we say, looking at the darkening sky. though we know it to be so, and feel it in our bones we will not believe that it is so; do The Nobles not play at dice before their crackling fire? The wheels appear to turn. Here and there an odd man reads the paper unconcerned by its deceits, the scores are true, and who has murdered whom, the name of the stars might change but they are still luminous, the pipers play a happy tune.

Some might see the shadow of a Man, he has his own name, but he has gone by many in the past, when the fires descend, when there is ruin, more often then not, some say, he leaves death in his wake.--No-one listens to dreamers, do they? Not in this day and age when we have surpassed all that our fathers ever dreamed of...

Prophets are a dime a dozen, poets even cheaper, it's too easy to string together words, to make dire thoughts. I have lived in a cold clime, and the warmer weather suits me just fine, I have no need to worry about old men in fine suits who walk under sunny skies discussing the weather...as yet I do not see the smoke from distant fires, but the merchants are wringing their hands and moping about.--

How is it they have become bedfellows with the politicians? Surely this was not always so? Something is amiss in the cosmos. The world moves too slowly, bodies are ground to a fine powder and sold as fertilizer, grease for the wheels, they say, mumbling of their poverty; yet all is well as they will have saved us once again, some say, by selling the beggared children into slavery for the glory of our bright tomorrows. We will be well and prosper--though the dreamers, and prophets and the poets would not have it so; tinkering with our madness as if all we know is just an illusion, or a bit of paper emblazoned with cartoon saints stabbing themselves.

Still! there is that need, deep down, that something wants to be done, and still the great Machine groans on raping the stripped earth. We die quietly in its path hugging our hoarded wealth; though always in the end we are left with nothing more than our bloated skin.

The consolidation of Disparate Positions

2008-10-03T12:08:00.004-04:00

Here is another voice crying in the wilderness.

The Republican Party is on the verge of Collapse--but it needs a push.

The Democratic party no longer has an ideological center--it needs a spur--

--and you guys in the baby parties are all running around without a snowball's chance in hell of ever getting anywhere in the pursuit of the office of "The Big Cheese", (currently occupied by Mr. Paulson by virtue of the senatus consultum currently being passed by congress), and consequently none of your supposedly innovative ideas will ever see the light of day.

Yeh well-you dimwits, this is supposed to be a Democracy, wherein compromise and coalition are weapons the people should be able to use as a bulwark against elitism. Holy corporation, Batman, we're fucked again.

Why's that? Well, everybody wants to be the big cheese.--and the only two (besides Mr. Paulson, may his reign be long and prosperous) who have a chance for that; are big on platitudes but mired in cookie cutter personalities who all want a piece of the action. Which sucks pond water as far as the future of the republic is concerned. I don't really see that changing, we've gotten too big for our britches (we've got Aircraft Carriers, for Gods Sake)--and we have to be first in everything, all the time. Even if serious consideration were given to my proposal, (which I haven't given yet, were adopted: fat chance) there you'd be wanting to be Secretary of this or that, huffing and puffing about, forgetting where you came from and all that, as if you might actually be better than someone else--which has gotten us into all this trouble in the first place.

America, dudes.

Now me, down here at the bottom of the heap; just waiting for the electric to get turned off, or the sheriff to finally catch up to me for my various indiscretions in the matter of survival has a different point of view. I got no property, I don't have no stinking job where some witless yahoo is telling me what to do, my lover is married to some other dude, and for a career path I have chosen to write poetry which by way of remuneration earns nothing but ridicule in this the best of all possible worlds.

Not to worry, I get by--just don't ask me no questions. The fact that your world is falling down about your ears worries me not at all. I gotta kitten on my lap, and my lover plans to slip away today, despite the stock market's imminent fall. "Been down so long it looks like up to me," he said warbling an old song--

Ah! But you guys you ain't so lucky. You gotta a long ways to fall when the wells run dry. The Free Money dropping out of the sky won't fall so far. And like as not you're going to get buried in the crop dust. 9/11 and the holy wars take a seat on the back burner, the gas is turned off anyway, how do you get the point across?

Simple, really. Have yourselves a cabal, I suppose you'll have to invite yourself, just to make sure nothing goes wrong, no-one in my generation ever wanted to miss a party anyways--a consortium: agree not to disagree so vehemently for a while--toss your names in a hat, then do it again for a number two. What have you got to lose?

America, dudes?--Aircraft Carriers rusting at the pier.

shortly after the birth of a New American Party, a man said this:

"Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this."

I would submit to you that democracy is a constant battle, your decision rests not on your petty ideas of Left vs Right, or in the constancy of your ambitions--rather, it is the very survival of the republic that is at stake. Whine all you want about your goddamn principles and the fact that you are right and they are wrong, put your name in the hat. It is altogether possible that within a small span of years, indeed it may already be impossible, that such a coalition will not be viable--you will be deemed "illegal" and a threat to the Empire. Recall the death of Cicero, at the hands of a nervous Octavian--the punishment of patriots is often cruel.

The Case Against John McCain

2008-10-01T13:22:00.011-04:00

http://thinkprogress.org/2008/10/01/mccain-aspire-dictator/

Straight Talk Express:

Here’s the list.

National Security Policy

1. McCain thought Bush’s warrantless-wiretap program circumvented the law; now he believes the opposite.

2. McCain insisted that everyone, even “terrible killers,” “the worst kind of scum of humanity,” and detainees at Guantanamo Bay, “deserve to have some adjudication of their cases,” even if that means “releasing some of them.” McCain now believes the opposite.

3. He opposed indefinite detention of terrorist suspects. When the Supreme Court reached the same conclusion, he called it “one of the worst decisions in the history of this country.”

4. In February 2008, McCain reversed course on prohibiting waterboarding.

5. McCain was for closing the detention facility at Guantanamo Bay before he was against it.

6. When Barack Obama talked about going after terrorists in Pakistani mountains with predators, McCain criticized him for it. He’s since come to the opposite conclusion.Foreign Policy

7. McCain was for kicking Russia out of the G8 before he was against it. Now, he’s for it again.

8. McCain supported moving “towards normalization of relations” with Cuba. Now he believes the opposite.

9. McCain believed the U.S. should engage in diplomacy with Hamas. Now he believes the opposite.

10. McCain believed the U.S. should engage in diplomacy with Syria. Now he believes the opposite.

11. McCain is both for and against a “rogue state rollback” as a focus of his foreign policy vision.

12. McCain used to champion the Law of the Sea convention, even volunteering to testify on the treaty’s behalf before a Senate committee. Now he opposes it.

13. McCain was against divestment from South Africa before he was for it.

Military Policy

14. McCain recently claimed that he was the “greatest critic” of Rumsfeld’s failed Iraq policy. In December 2003, McCain praised the same strategy as “a mission accomplished.” In March 2004, he said, “I’m confident we’re on the right course.” In December 2005, he said, “Overall, I think a year from now, we will have made a fair amount of progress if we stay the course.”

15. McCain has changed his mind about a long-term U.S. military presence in Iraq on multiple occasions, concluding, on multiple occasions, that a Korea-like presence is both a good and a bad idea.

16. McCain was against additional U.S. forces in Afghanistan before he was for it.

17. McCain said before the war in Iraq, “We will win this conflict. We will win it easily.” Four years later, McCain said he knew all along that the war in Iraq war was “probably going to be long and hard and tough.”

18. McCain has repeatedly said it’s a dangerous mistake to tell the “enemy” when U.S. troops would be out of Iraq. In May, McCain announced that most American troops would be home from Iraq by 2013.

19. McCain was against expanding the GI Bill before he was for it.

20. McCain staunchly opposed Obama’s Iraq withdrawal timetable, and even blasted Mitt Romney for having referenced the word during the GOP primaries. In July, after Iraqi officials endorsed Obama’s policy, McCain said a 16-month calendar sounds like “a pretty good timetable.”

Domestic Policy

21. McCain defended “privatizing” Social Security. Now he says he’s against privatization (though he actually still supports it.)

22. On Social Security, McCain said he would not, under any circumstances, raise taxes. Soon after, asked about a possible increase in the payroll tax, McCain said there’s “nothing that’s off the table.”

23. McCain wanted to change the Republican Party platform to protect abortion rights in cases of rape and incest. Now he doesn’t.

24. McCain supported storing spent nuclear fuel at Yucca Mountain in Nevada. Now he believes the opposite.

25. He argued the NRA should not have a role in the Republican Party’s policy making. Now he believes the opposite.

26. In 1998, he championed raising cigarette taxes to fund programs to cut underage smoking, insisting that it would prevent illnesses and provide resources for public health programs. Now, McCain opposes a $0.61-per-pack tax increase, won’t commit to supporting a regulation bill he’s co-sponsoring, and has hired Philip Morris’ former lobbyist as his senior campaign adviser.

27. McCain is both for and against earmarks for Arizona.

28. McCain’s first mortgage plan was premised on the notion that homeowners facing foreclosure shouldn’t be “rewarded” for acting “irresponsibly.” His second mortgage plan took largely the opposite position.

29. McCain went from saying gay marriage should be allowed, to saying gay marriage shouldn’t be allowed.

30. McCain opposed a holiday to honor Martin Luther King, Jr., before he supported it.

31. McCain was anti-ethanol. Now he’s pro-ethanol.

32. McCain was both for and against state promotion of the Confederate flag.

33. In 2005, McCain endorsed intelligent design creationism, a year later he said the opposite, and a few months after that, he was both for and against creationism at the same time.

34. And on gay adoption, McCain initially said he’d rather let orphans go without families, then his campaign reversed course, and soon after, McCain reversed back.

35. In the Senate, McCain opposed a variety of measures on equal pay for women, and endorsed the Supreme Court’s Ledbetter decision. In July, however, McCain said, “I’m committed to making sure that there’s equal pay for equal work. That … is my record and you can count on it.”

36. McCain was against fully funding the No Child Left Behind Act before he was for it.

37. McCain was for affirmative action before he was against it.

38. McCain said the Colorado River compact will “obviously” need to be “renegotiated.” Six days later, McCain said, “Let me be clear that I do not advocate renegotiation of the compact.”Economic Policy

39. McCain was against Bush’s tax cuts for the very wealthy before he was for them.

40. John McCain initially argued that economics is not an area of expertise for him, saying, “I’m going to be honest: I know a lot less about economics than I do about military and foreign policy issues; I still need to be educated,” and “The issue of economics is not something I’ve understood as well as I should.” He now falsely denies ever having made these remarks and insists that he has a “very strong” understanding of economics.

41. McCain vowed, if elected, to balance the federal budget by the end of his first term. Soon after, he decided he would no longer even try to reach that goal. And soon after that, McCain abandoned his second position and went back to his first.

42. McCain said in 2005 that he opposed the tax cuts because they were “too tilted to the wealthy.” By 2007, he denied ever having said this, and falsely argued that he opposed the cuts because of increased government spending.

43. McCain thought the estate tax was perfectly fair. Now he believes the opposite.

44. McCain pledged in February 2008 that he would not, under any circumstances, raise taxes. Specifically, McCain was asked if he is a “‘read my lips’ candidate, no new taxes, no matter what?” referring to George H.W. Bush’s 1988 pledge. “No new taxes,” McCain responded. Two weeks later, McCain said, “I’m not making a ‘read my lips’ statement, in that I will not raise taxes.”

45. McCain has changed his entire economic worldview on multiple occasions.

46. McCain believes Americans are both better and worse off economically than they were before Bush took office.

47. McCain was against massive government bailouts of “big banks” that “act irresponsibly.” He then announced his support for a massive government bailout of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac.Energy Policy

48. McCain supported the moratorium on coastal drilling ; now he’s against it.

49. McCain recently announced his strong opposition to a windfall-tax on oil company profits. Three weeks earlier, he was perfectly comfortable with the idea.

50. McCain endorsed a cap-and-trade policy with a mandatory emissions cap. In mid-June, McCain announced he wants the caps to voluntary.

51. McCain explained his belief that a temporary suspension of the federal gas tax would provide an immediate economic stimulus. Shortly thereafter, he argued the exact opposite.

52. McCain supported the Lieberman/Warner legislation to combat global warming. Now he doesn’t.

53. McCain was for national auto emissions standards before he was against them.

Immigration Policy

54. McCain was a co-sponsor of the DREAM Act, which would grant legal status to illegal immigrants’ kids who graduate from high school. In 2007, he announced his opposition to the bill. In 2008, McCain switched back.

55. On immigration policy in general, McCain announced in February 2008 that he would vote against his own bill.

56. In April, McCain promised voters that he would secure the borders “before proceeding to other reform measures.” Two months later, he abandoned his public pledge, pretended that he’d never made the promise in the first place, and vowed that a comprehensive immigration reform policy has always been, and would always be, his “top priority.”

Judicial Policy and the Rule of Law

57. McCain said he would “not impose a litmus test on any nominee.” He used to promise the opposite.

58. McCain’s position was that the telecoms should be forced to explain their role in the administration’s warrantless surveillance program as a condition for retroactive immunity. He used to believe the opposite.

59. McCain went from saying he would not support repeal of Roe v. Wade to saying the exact opposite.

60. In June, McCain rejected the idea of a trial for Osama bin Laden, and thought Obama’s reference to Nuremberg was a misread of history. A month later, McCain argued the exact opposite position.

61. In June, McCain described the Supreme Court’s decision in Boumediene v. Bush was “one of the worst decisions in the history of this country.” In August, he reversed course.

Campaign, Ethics, and Lobbying Reform

62. McCain supported his own lobbying-reform legislation from 1997. Now he doesn’t.

63. In 2006, McCain sponsored legislation to require grassroots lobbying coalitions to reveal their financial donors. In 2007, after receiving “feedback” on the proposal, McCain told far-right activist groups that he opposes his own measure.

64. McCain supported a campaign-finance bill, which bore his name, on strengthening the public-financing system. In June 2007, he abandoned his own legislation.

65. In May 2008, McCain approved a ban on lobbyists working for his campaign. In July 2008, his campaign reversed course and said lobbyists could work for his campaign.Politics and Associations

66. McCain wanted political support from radical televangelist John Hagee. Now he doesn’t. (He also believes his endorsement from Hagee was both a good and bad idea.)

67. McCain wanted political support from radical televangelist Rod Parsley. Now he doesn’t.

68. McCain says he considered and did not consider joining John Kerry’s Democratic ticket in 2004.

69. McCain is both for and against attacking Barack Obama over his former pastor at his former church.

70. McCain criticized TV preacher Jerry Falwell as “an agent of intolerance” in 2002, but then decided to cozy up to the man who said Americans “deserved” the 9/11 attacks.

71. In 2000, McCain accused Texas businessmen Sam and Charles Wyly of being corrupt, spending “dirty money” to help finance Bush’s presidential campaign. McCain not only filed a complaint against the Wylys for allegedly violating campaign finance law, he also lashed out at them publicly. In April, McCain reached out to the Wylys for support.

72. McCain was against presidential candidates campaigning at Bob Jones University before he was for it.

73. McCain decided in 2000 that he didn’t want anything to do with former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, believing he “would taint the image of the ‘Straight Talk Express.’” Kissinger is now the Honorary Co-Chair for his presidential campaign in New York.

74. McCain believed powerful right-wing activist/lobbyist Grover Norquist was “corrupt, a shill for dictators, and (with just a dose of sarcasm) Jack Abramoff’s gay lover.” McCain now considers Norquist a key political ally.

75. McCain was for presidential candidates giving speeches in foreign countries before he was against it.

76. McCain has been both for and against considering a pro-choice running mate for the Republican presidential ticket.

http://www.thecarpetbaggerreport.com/flipflops

The Reform Institute

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20081006/ames

"The "Reform Institute" has taken a lot of heat as a front organization designed to funnel money to McCain's political career. As Ari Berman wrote, McCain's campaign co-chair, Rick Davis, served as the president of the nonprofit Reform Institute for three years, earning $395,000 in salary. Davis also headquartered his lobbying firm, Davis Manafort, in the Reform Institute's offices at that time. He is just one of several McCain people who passed through the Reform Institute's revolving door while McCain prepared for the 2008 campaign. McCain formally stepped down from his own institute in 2005, but he remains deeply linked to the Reform Institute to this day. "

On The Georgia Conflict:

Yet despite McCain's tough talk, behind the scenes his top advisers have cultivated deep ties with Russia's oligarchy--indeed, they have promoted the Kremlin's geopolitical and economic interests, as well as some of its most unsavory business figures, through greedy cynicism and geopolitical stupor. The most notable example is the tale of how McCain and his campaign manager, Rick Davis, advanced what became a key victory for the Kremlin: gaining control over the small but strategically important country of Montenegro.

According to two former senior US diplomats who served in the Balkans, Davis and his lobbying firm, Davis Manafort, received several million dollars to help run Montenegro's independence referendum campaign of 2006. The terms of the agreement were never disclosed to the public, but top Montenegrin officials told the US diplomats that Davis's work was underwritten by powerful Russian business interests connected to the Kremlin and operating in Montenegro. Neither Davis nor the McCain campaign responded to repeated requests for comment.

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20081020/ames_berman

Links to Current Meltdown:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/10/01/watchdog-group-links-mcca_n_130840.html

The Dictator

http://blogs.reuters.com/trail08/2008/10/01/musing-with-mccain-if-i-were-dictator/

In mid-September The Nation's website published a photo of McCain celebrating his seventieth birthday in Montenegro in August 2006 at a yacht party hosted by convicted Italian felon Raffaello Follieri and his movie-star girlfriend Anne Hathaway.

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20081020/ames_berman

McCain support of domestic terrorism:

http://thinkprogress.org/2008/10/06/mccain-abotion-bombers/

– Voting against making anti-choice violence a federal crime. As the Jed Report notes, McCain voted in 1993 and 1994 against making “bombings, arson and blockades at abortion clinics, and shootings and threats of violence against doctors and nurses who perform abortions” federal crimes.

– Opposing Colorado’s “Bubble Law.” McCain said he opposed Colorado’s “Bubble Law,” which prohibited abortion protesters from getting within 8 feet of women entering clinics [Denver Post, 2/27/00]. The law was later upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court.

– Voting to allow those fined for violence at clinics to avoid penalties by declaring bankruptcy. NARAL Pro-Chioce America notes that McCain “voted to allow perpetrators of violence or harassment at reproductive-health clinics to avoid paying the fines assessed against them for their illegal acts by declaring bankruptcy.”

The Party In Bermuda

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20081110/tuttle

Asian Entertainment Corporation

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/chi-donorsoct29,0,1269595.story

The Car Crash In '64

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/10/28/news-orgs-investigate-pos_n_138449.html

Some editorial Comment:

Never forget Sinclair Lewis’ prophetic words, “When facism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross”.

some familiar words that have been bandied about here in the Fatherland urr Homeland recently:

"The national government will maintain and defend the foundations on which the power of our nation rests. It will offer strong protection to Christianity as the very basis of our collective morality. Today Christians stand at the head of our country. We want to fill our culture again with the Christian spirit. We want to burn out all the recent immoral developments in literature, in the theatre, and in the press — in short, we want to burn out the poison of immorality which has entered into our whole life and culture as a result of Liberal excess during the past years.” —

Adolph Hitler - Taken from The Speeches of Adolph Hitler, 1922-1939, Vol. 1, Michael Hakeem, Ph.D. (London, Oxford University Press, 1942), pp. 871-872.

notes from the communist manifesto

2008-09-28T09:02:00.004-04:00

Each step in the development of the bourgeoisie was accompanied by a corresponding political advance of that class. An oppressed class under the sway of the feudal nobility, an armed and self-governing association in the medieval commune(4): here independent urban republic (as in Italy and Germany); there taxable “third estate” of the monarchy (as in France); afterwards, in the period of manufacturing proper, serving either the semi-feudal or the absolute monarchy as a counterpoise against the nobility, and, in fact, cornerstone of the great monarchies in general, the bourgeoisie has at last, since the establishment of Modern Industry and of the world market, conquered for itself, in the modern representative State, exclusive political sway. The executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie.

The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his “natural superiors”, and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous “cash payment”. It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervour, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom — Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.

The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionising the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. Conservation of the old modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all earlier industrial classes. Constant revolutionising of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind.

The conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. And how does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? On the one hand by enforced destruction of a mass of productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation of the old ones. That is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented.

At this stage, the labourers still form an incoherent mass scattered over the whole country, and broken up by their mutual competition. If anywhere they unite to form more compact bodies, this is not yet the consequence of their own active union, but of the union of the bourgeoisie, which class, in order to attain its own political ends, is compelled to set the whole proletariat in motion, and is moreover yet, for a time, able to do so. At this stage, therefore, the proletarians do not fight their enemies, but the enemies of their enemies, the remnants of absolute monarchy, the landowners, the non-industrial bourgeois, the petty bourgeois. Thus, the whole historical movement is concentrated in the hands of the bourgeoisie; every victory so obtained is a victory for the bourgeoisie.

The lower middle class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle class. They are therefore not revolutionary, but conservative. Nay more, they are reactionary, for they try to roll back the wheel of history. If by chance, they are revolutionary, they are only so in view of their impending transfer into the proletariat; they thus defend not their present, but their future interests, they desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat.

****

from Wiki on the dialectic:

In classical philosophy, dialectic (Greek: διαλεκτική) is controversy: the exchange of arguments and counter-arguments respectively advocating propositions (theses) and counter-propositions (antitheses). The outcome of the exercise might not simply be the refutation of one of the relevant points of view, but a synthesis or combination of the opposing assertions, or at least a qualitative transformation in the direction of the dialogue.[1][2] The presupposition of a dialectical dialogue is that the participants share at least some meanings and principles of valid inference, even if they do not agree.

****

The bourgeois seeks no synthesis of the Dialectic. It it is interested only in preservation & profit. By maintaining the struggle between freedom & equality, rather than participating in negotiations to resolve the conflict, it divides the proletariat in a permant struggle which serves only its primary interests. The perceived gains of the proletariat are illusion, products of the progression of materialism. Life itself, that of symbol & worth are abdicated in favor of an empty comfort.

Economic Expectation

2008-09-26T11:40:00.005-04:00

The essential component of the Market is expectation. Heretofore, that expectation has been toward expansion, and a blind belief in growth; that expectation, at a basic level, within the Market has changed. However they might wish to disguise it the means of exchange must in the end be based on something of real value. The era of the petro-dollar is rapidly drawing to a close, and the ability of the American dollar to find, develop and exploit that resource is rapidly diminishing. The basic strength of the American Market, is and always has been in her ability to produce food, but that industry has now allied itself so closely with oil in all her stages of development that here again the dollar is losing ground.

Heavy industry save for a few pockets is gone, the high tech industry is stagnant, and will soon be eclipsed by countries with a greater stake in its present development. Our present infrastructure in based on the distribution and storage of foreign manufactured goods and our own agricultural products. This system also relies on petroleum throughout its operation. The nascent green technology will, without massive government infusion, take many years yet to develop.

Without a solid, universally accepted basis for the manufacture of currency, exchange must be based on a constantly changing assumption of where the true value lies, given the above deficiencies, property became the most attractive proposition which the fewest downsides upon which the market could derive a favorable evaluation of the dollar. It was a hedge against the inevitable fall, no more than a holding action--it main purpose was to allow the expectation and illusion of growth to continue. But there was no real growth, there was only inflation. As the demand grew, prices rose but the real value of the property remained the same. No other outlet arose which would alleviate the pressure because every other avenue was closed by the fuel-dollar equation which made investment an inevitable loss. The bubble thus had to be expanded by any means necessary to preserve expectation. Basically, that's what they were selling, expectation of an ever expanding economy, which no longer exists. When that became evident to the Market, prices began to fall. The new expectation is retrenchment, defensive positions against contraction. Credit becomes cautious, debt must be paid down; interest must be earned as the primary source of profit rather than speculation.

Against such a backdrop, the infusion of a finite amount of cash, no matter how large will be quickly absorbed in bolstering those defensive positions, rather than changing what is by now an unalterable position. The American economy, until basic outlooks are once again changed, and in the present climate that is unlikely, has nothing to offer the world by which she can show a profit, and is contracting. It is, at the present time, lurching towards a new equilibrium.

It is not the bottom of the real estate market that is the problem, but rather the bottom of the market itself, the bottom of expectation, that place where we will reside in the new economic order of nations. As noted above the infusion of money into a system with such an expectation is futile--however, the infusion of cash into reorienting the system and revaluing the dollar upon new infrastructure might allow for a shorter duration to the now prevalent inward looking expectation.

The Meltdown

2008-09-24T08:59:00.006-04:00

Well, isn't this a fine mess.
A new emperor in fine clothes! But its a bit chilly for those.

700 billion.

For the frat boys in fine suits who got caught with their pants down, my momma used to say there was no such thing as free money.

Problem is, them boys never listened to their momma.

Dwindling resources equals the end of the gravy parade--So the dudes with the real cash, that paper not backed by the mystical machinations of credit for credit shut off the faucet.
--oopsers. Bound to happen. Tipping point. "Please, Mr. Bush, give us some more money so we can continue to roll in the dough--"

Probably happen too. Problem is that government money is worth no more than a handful of snow, and melts right through the hand. Bingo the bunko bankers go, give us more, and they will, cause everybody got their hand in the trough one way or another but strapped for the cash to pay the Wal-mart credit card, and that's mostly owned by China too. Everybody go Boo-hoo.
With no pain, the Corporate State can slip right through--which Mr. Rove knows, since Mr. Cheney told him so back in the day when they began building the paper castle with credit cards and bank machines--computers to track the interest rates and multiply the multiples--I guess in the end they forgot about the American propensity for the quick buck, now they are up against it and we'll have to see how far they are willing to go and just what they are willing to risk. They like to keep the untidiness on foreign shores but they will do what they have to do. Seems to me, the bankers like wars, but find riots to be most unprofitable.

All in. Us & them both. Us? we got a two and a three in the hole, and the first card turned up is a suicide king. If we let the bailout go through they get to play in the sand box for a while, if not, the shit hits the fan for a good bit, things get re-adjusted to a more realistic level, but Jesus knows there will be Hell to pay, and in the end they just move back into the dusty offices where the paper get pushed along. Its a good thing rednecks like to play dress up and wear gaudy uniforms with shiny medals, else ways they might have to hire Hessians to come in to keep order. As it is, homegrown blackshirts will have to do, at least they got some practice in at the RNC, bashing heads and doing the paper work, processing is a good word, sorta neutral in the scheme of things; at least when people disappear.

Time to pay the piper, people.--one way or another. Greed is good til the pot boils over and the revenooers come to take the truck; and you have to sell the cow for a dime on the buck. Happy go lucky has called the shell game and the pea has rolled off the folding table and is headed towards the gutter.

The Collapse of the Center

2008-09-08T09:59:00.003-04:00

It seems the old center in Politics has collapsed, the Moderate republican can now be considered to the left of center;

which one might consider McCain if he had any principles that he actually stood for--

the conservative republican now holds the center, and the right wing of the party which is basically fascist has moved toward the left, which leaves an outright dictatorship a viable option, given the fundamentalist approach to establishing a Theocracy as the true right wing of the party.

I am thinking that given that, the liberal wing of the Democratic party must unite with the smaller fringe parties to form a new liberal party to combat the rising tide of Conservative forces which are moving towards a mentality of Fortress America because of dwindling resources, paranoia, and protectionism.

We must return to FDR's formula:"The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself"

if we are going to survive as a free Nation.

McCain & the rise of Corporate Fascism

2008-08-20T11:18:00.005-04:00

If McCain is Elected, and his memory serves him long enough to repeat it,

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

should be amended to read:

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute preserve, protect and defend to the best of my ability the office of President of the United States. "

No point in mentioning the Constitution, it will only be a left over roll of toilet paper in any case.

All that will matter is that the cops have plenty of guns and that the Corporate Mafias are properly provisioned with mountains of cash to buy offshore properties safe from the certain collapse of America.

Points for change--Amiri Baraka

2008-08-18T10:29:00.005-04:00

Progressive Agenda for Obama
from: http://possumego.blogspot.com/

1. End Iraq War, cancel preparations for Iran War. Re-establish that it is Congress that declares wars. End so called “National Security Government: Close Guantanamo, end Homeland Security\domination of US political and social life.

these things seem doable by the new president, I would add that the National Security Agency be abolished. The Central Intelligence should be what it is, the Central Intelligence Agency.

2. Make racism a criminal offense assault 1
Hateful as it is, it is a protected right, shall we now institute
thought crime as a criminal offense?

3. Use of the N Word (by anyone) assault 2
Words too, are protected, to fear them is to make them powerful

4. Use of the B Word (by anyone) assault 2
Ditto the above;
and where do you stop, George O asked sweetly?
"Yor Momma?"

5. Begin to push for change in Political Culture of US**
A. End the Electoral College System
B. End Winner Take All System
C. Initiate One Person One Vote
D. Abolition of US Senate -replace with Unicameral system (one House of Representatives based on One Person One Vote).
E. Parliamentary System= As many parties as represent ideological groups, as in Europe, so that Coalition politics emerge.
A thru D will require a constitutional convention, tho I believe E. is a necessary change which we must see. The Two prevailing parties are all things to all people and stand for nothing at all, unless it is Fascism.

F. Ban on private monies in elections
This probably won't happen until we get get of Politicians and start electing Statesmen. I see none on the horizon.

G. Restoration of Voting Rights to Ex Felons
Don't matter to me. Most are either political or trumped up drug charges to cover for political. Something that needs to be sorted out, "ex" would mean in any case that they have served their sentence---further restrictions would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.

6. Review of National Debt by National Forum
At 2.5 trillion, I think George has fucked us prettily royally. All the talking in the world won't get us out of this one. All in all looks pretty bleak given the balance of payments, falling dollar, and bogus financial manipulations.

7. Executive Support for Reparations- Establishment of National Citizens Committee
What we going to use to pay reparation with? No more fucking committee's please.

8. General Investigation & Review of Criminal Justice System
Buncha good old boys investigating a bunch of good old boys generally finds that laundry hanging on the line smells pretty sweet.

9. Appointment of Progressive Supreme Court & Other Judges
Yeh well, we can hope--Problem with appellation "progressive" when applied to judges is most of them good old boys is lawyers.

10. Review Diplomatic Relations with all Nations. By National Panel with recommendationsa. Haiti b. Cuba. c. Venezuela d. Saudi Arabia e. Iran f. Israelb. Strengthen Committee on Africa, investigate relations
"Yeh right," they say, "the paper tiger wants to kiss our asses now."

11. Investigate Need for Cabinet level Office of Afro American Affairs
No more committees!

12. Review Affirmative Actions statutes, reverse negative trends
When Congress reviews shit they have a tendency to make things worse.
i.e. fuck things up.

13. Housing: “Everyone must have a place to live” bill
Man wouldn't that be sweet. Who gonna pay for that, Rupert Murdach?

14. Education- Reaffirm support with action for Public Education. Veto attempts to weaken PE budget
Certainly within the purview of a new President. Good luck with that.

15. Minimum Wage
with 17% inflation how do you keep up, and what's the point with the corporations selling us down the river anyway?

16. Investigate Bush-Cheney years, including their election, with National Forum, Recommendations
Yeh right. 20 years in the courts for a wrist slap. anda don't do that no more.

17. National investigation of 911
How much do we really want to know? and what would we get anyway but plausible extrapolations?

18. Review FDA- Reverse Bush’ Rule eliminations
Reorganize the whole damn mess. like that's going to happen.

19. Review Environmental Protection Agency –role- laws
Same thing.

20. International treaties review Oslo, Nuclear, Ballistic missile, Trade
Treaties aren't the problem adherence to them by a lawful government is.

21. Plan for direct monitoring and supervision of Voting Apparatus Nationally. Stop “suppression of the Black & Latino vote”
It would be better for local authorities to live up to their "oaths of office" on this one--one more layer of bureaucracy will solve nothing.

22. Executive intervention for National Health Care plan
Bush has pretty much made it impossible to be paid for, Greed in health care industry have driven costs out of sight. Still a new president can milk it for all she's worth even though the well is dry.

23. Presentation of Progressive National Immigration Bill
Blather. No amount of regulation will stop the movement of peoples and it is only going to get worse. Best we can do is find a way to deal with the influx of people. (See end of Roman Empire, Goths, Visigoths, Vandals, Huns, etc.)

24. New initiative for National Cultural & Arts Support
Being a piss poor poet I'd be in favor of this one--cept America is and more than likely always will be afraid of Art--it opens up onto to many avenues of Darkness.

25. New Public Works Program to put US back to work
A microwave transmission satellite system for the generation of energy, by an international consortium of nations, infrastructure for existing rail, new maglev system of rail transit, canals refurbished, but who gonna pay for that?

26. Push programs for Regulation of Capitalism, Stop excessive outsourcing , end big capital’s abandoning of factories, cities, industries
this will happen, of course, when the driving force of America is no longer profit. Bluntly, when we eliminate American Greed. First things first.

Canto for Sound

2008-08-13T09:02:00.004-04:00

Nimrod’s ranting: “Raphèl maì amècche zabì almi.”
mutters Rimbaud in the Ardennes,
a match box for the unbelieved
a torch for little Timmy’s flowered bier.
dogwood and chestnut
should it be May as it was said
sometime in the past.

That was nothing to those who misbehaved,
spitting between breaths
exhaling to be
vibrations between the silent trees
lovers pressed against the rough bark.
It is already Fall on the steppes
the bile is caught in the throat
unwilling to be expelled,
the low guttural
leaves in hiss
against the constant wind.
& that therefore, we know, must be translated
as kiss
in the bottom of a teacup
the entrails of an ox
the flight of raven fleeing

God knows what
God knows what
another sop to a tower leaning

mothers keening at the entrance
to flowershops
others cleaning the underbrush,

“That which is over there”
said the prissy Latin poet
with a sneer

mal odious over and over
confusing alive with saliva
the one tongue splintered by time.

Dante has Nimrod in his hell (Inferno XXXI, 46-81) with the loss of meaningful language as his punishment"

http://poemsandpoetics.blogspot.com/2008/08/pierre-joris-from-justifying-margins.html

Louis Zukofsky

2008-07-26T11:02:00.004-04:00

http://brookswinchell.blogspot.com/2008/07/pleasure-of-reading-zukofsky.html

http://jjbelgianwaffle.blogspot.com/2008/07/riddles-of-form-seven-louis-zukofsky-1.html

http://www.staff.u-szeged.hu/~gnovak/01sepbblzzukpoems.htm

http://www.ofscollege.edu.sg/z-site/notes-to-poetry/Anew-1946.php

http://jacketmagazine.com/30/z-lang.html

Stimulus & Response

2008-07-24T08:18:00.004-04:00

data demonstrate an indirect effect in the absence of a direct effect

afforded by when or

same stimuli responses are manipulate

Thus, stimuli without
[of is of at instructed A of its on an of (task measure) a a effect A of typically (accuracy) of a an (measure) of !direct a task! on at]

Subliminally stimuli stimuli select response.

accelerate response

Lateralized experienced presented same responses.

findings indicate.
Thus, stimuli accelerate response responses.

when manipulate subliminal response.

accelerate
attitudes without awareness of their without

of antecedents demonstrate
These attitudes afforded

stimuli subliminal stimuli

responses. afforded when or stimuli

are by same manipulate responses.
presented responses presented when different

Evidence

been

Subliminally supraliminally

when has been different delay responses

been reported mainly presented or

Evidence or presented activate cognition.

The Eternal Feminine

2008-07-23T13:03:00.006-04:00

Half Dreaming Louise Bourgeois' Dreams

Lightlike
thin blue mother's milk pours
from the hard kettle morning pools
and sticks to twisted sheets -- Louise is still asleep
in a house ((inside a house )) inside my mind (today modern glass)
Cell # 69

this is meant to be aggressive but wholly feminine like chewing a bottle of aspirin left on the table in the center of the room without swallowing water.

Sexbackwards.

Diary Entry: 07-23-08:

Perhaps the last day of my life, I am so very old.

My legs won't carry me over the dumpster walls anymore. I am thinking about Robert's dead penis entering my body and he comes back to life.

Woman like a white flower devil/angel sacred cunt fecund earth -- Georgia O'Keefe! Where is the photo of us together? Did we ever have one? I only can remember all those sir-really men.

remember unDaughters: Spiral = freedom v. strangle

1. Plant moonflowers in the gray pot on the roof
2. Write a poem about Fear on the blooming petals. I dare you Louise -- be delicate -- show more of yourself.

Confront: I am so old.
C'est la vie!
But please when you find me don't use that bottle of Lysol, I hate the smell! That young artist from Texas left it behind at last Sunday's Salon. How stupid his work and I told him so! But still ... I must be more encouraging next week. ....there is still so much to dream.

~L.B.

//return //

Do you remember Louise, when we cut our palms with our brother's pocketknife?
How they slid warm when we pressed our hands together?
Our shiny red hearts pumping inside our swallowlike chests
for boys we hadn't yet met
and how we giggled about the babies our store of eggs would someday make?
And we hunted for nests.

We will won't we Louise --- always be born into such vulnerable architecture.

Lisa Nickerson
8/23/08

The Advent of a Quantum Poetry

2008-07-23T07:41:00.002-04:00

To these I present the composition as an Art-Product alone: -- let us say as a Romance; or, if I be not urging too lofty a claim, as a Poem.

What I here propound is true: -- therefore it cannot die: -- or if by any means it be now trodden down so that it die, it will “rise again to the Life Everlasting.”

Nevertheless it is as a Poem only that I wish this work to be judged after I am dead.

http://poemsandpoetics.blogspot.com/

Attitudes in Deportment

2008-07-22T12:40:00.004-04:00

Blasted prose is all telly, takes the engine out, no matter, it is what is at hand. All that's left some say. Not much point in disagreeing, since there will be enough of that.

Might be, that by 1930 it was all finished, that is the New--what followed was an interpretation, and elaboration, a thinking through. (yet one would not limit the renaissance to a small span of years, so be not too hasty as yet). Still, the reverberations of those working in those years are still with us, coloring every line of verse whether we acknowledge it or not. It is not even a matter of knowledge in most cases--the sad lot of education being what it is.

Pieces of this or that are taken and declared New, at best there is an evolution--language overtakes the poetry and the poetry itself is forgotten, whatever the genre which one might choose to subscribe to, thus there is dogma and counter-dogma and anti-dogma and the piss blew the ants away and so forth. Somewhere in the center of it all the poetry still remains, and if it is lost who shall we blame, why only the poets who sit in the flame and prefer not to be burnt--

and if they are not burnt dare we call them poets?

Dog poopy. It is worse than Plato thought, lies and evasions; such promises as would make a televangelist blush were one capable of such a thing. There is nothing that would make the axes in the grasses spring forth to strike these poets down, and if one should dare; the ridicule from his brethren would deafen the heedless gods themselves. (That was fun, where was I?)

Oh yeh! Political correctness masquerading as poetry would be one way of putting it, another would be banal pap best left in secret diaries with the rest of the public secrets that make the housewives titter and gasp--

one wonders if they still do that.

Maybe it is the convergence of science & spirituality--at this crux, this vantage point which we have we are halved by both certainty & uncertainty.---our existence is predicated on the signposts we leave for those who follow; the questions become finer, ethics, consciousness, spirituality--in our hubris we do not wish to be wrong yet cannot escape that destiny even as our artificial society sinks in the mud and we can quite plainly see it. Boogers we say, and argue over the angels on the head of the pin!

Schools they say! Schools of this & that--periwinkles and pop-tarts, pink commas in the hem of the schoolgirls miniskirt, and who's in charge of story time. Techniques is all they are! ways of saying that which must be said. I happily steal from all of them. If I have to--if I don't I putter down whichever road presents itself. If in the before of all that, I absent myself to take a pee you must pardon me.

Roots---

2008-07-22T07:31:00.002-04:00

From Gertrude Stein: "Sources", tender buttons
http://www.gradesaver.com/etext/titles/tender/section3.html

A little lingering lion and a Chinese chair, all the handsome cheese which is stone, all of it and a choice, a choice of a blotter. If it is difficult to do it one way there is no place of similar trouble. None. The whole arrangement is established. The end of which is that there is a suggestion, a suggestion that there can be a different whiteness to a wall. This was thought.

The possibilities of a postmodernism

2008-07-18T07:10:00.002-04:00

Screambly or re-considerations, at least as to titles--labels for the latest millennium and such--pending the outcome on the imminent dissolution of society, which makes "modern" such an unfortunate misnomer.

Happily, some drunken archaeologist may find some dusty disks that can be deciphered in the rubble. I very much doubt that he will scan for meter, Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall and such--"The Age Demands" or
alternatively "we" demand a poem.

A splintered age, the light shining through the facets of a diamond, fragments, bits and pieces left over from the orgy of a mass madness;
an individual pleasure that outweighed the common good? It is a common question. The handbill floating in the wind usually refers you to a deal that will leave you one up on your neighbor in one way or another, that is should it be you that receives the reward. I am told, that democracy referred to the tyranny of the many (Aristotle)--(Bartleby would be unwelcome; all things considered.)

Hence as the spirit moves me, or a condensed heresy until crisis overwhelms the gestation of the stillborn idea--Modern must be realized always as "not yet". A mad conceit to add post- was it not Baudelaire who was modern? Or Catullus, mourning for Lesbia's sparrow? Perhaps we can borrow from the surreal--encase ourselves in plastic and pretend that the overriding sense of the age is not rage; no, not at all, of course, sitting as we are with our chubby hands clasped upon our fat bellies as if we were all Mr. Bloom quite certain that we know the direction of things.

--in that sense, the History of the poem that is not yet. How would we quantify ourselves within its text? Pander surely to our greed, which is the legacy of our philosophy. (Mr. Pound would cause Mr. Adams to frown at this point most unpleasantly in the latest canto, wherein I straighten the pink flamingo while bending without spilling my coffee to retrieve the morning paper, and call it cognito ergo sum, not neglecting the Hero who is me)
"That was a rather long trope," Mr. Bloom exclaimed, widening the scope of his enquiry.--no matter every couple of hours it is archived upon the ever more meaningless pile of words. Frightfully we must all make a record of our "existence". Even me.

Naturally, that makes us all Poets, which makes the poem of "not yet" that much harder to find; quite, tho one is assured that nowhere is just the same as everywhere. Frankly, I am of the opinion, that Mr. Kees is quite dead, tho robinson is peering over our shoulder noting the dismal failure of definition, disregarding of course the painting of bikinis, or the skirts designed for islands.

________________________

" just ran the final proof of Novaless through Word's auto- summarize feature, setting the parameters to 1 percent of the text. 160 pages reduced to 6 lines. This, then, is the machinable vision of a poetic text's integral elements, with no alterations:

time
black light
affective life . . .life
if dark » . . .
« if
life
if

Who said mindless mechanisms are deprived of poetic sensibility?I was dumbstruck . . . "
Posted by Nicholas Manning at 11:21 PM 5 comments
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
http://thenewermetaphysicals.blogspot.com/2008/06/summer-rise.html

________________________________

Standing Thus on the lip of the chasm--Mr. Bloom, would not I presume understand this ejaculation on the modem preferring this last exclamation to express our own scream, rather than letting our precocious child articulate it for us. How sweet it would be to write our own epitaph, to have at least that modicum of control over our own modern, which is to occur time and time again, in the near future.

L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E

2008-07-15T08:23:00.005-04:00

L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E

=

Aims are best grasped by what the movement opposed: {6}

1. narrative: no story or connecting tissue of viewpoint or argument: poems often incorporate random thoughts, observations and sometimes nonsense. {7}
2. personal expression: not merely detached, the poems accept Barthe's thesis that the author does not exist. {8}
3. organization: poems are based on the line, not the stanza, and often that line is discontinuous or fragmentary: the poems reject any guiding sense of purpose. {9}
4. control: poems take to extremes the open forms advocated by Williams and the Black Mountain School.
5. capitalist politics and/or bourgeoisie values. {10}

http://www.textetc.com/modernist/language-poetry.html

1The words of the Preacher,
the son of David,
king in Jerusalem.
2 Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher,
vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
3 What does man gain by all the toil
at which he toils under the sun?
4A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.
5 The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
and hastens to the place where it rises.
6 The wind blows to the south
and goes around to the north;
around and around goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns.
7All streams run to the sea,
but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
there they flow again.
8All things are full of weariness;
a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.
9 What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.
10Is there a thing of which it is said,
"See, this is new"?
It has been already
in the ages before us.
11 There is no remembrance of former things,
nor will there be any remembrance
of later things yet to be
among those who come after.

Ecclesiastes 1

------------------------------------------------------------

To have evolved into an extreme pro-piety by this point, as at the beginning the refinement of a technique; another inevitable dam built against the onslaught of reality--i.e. the constant creation of the mind.

(Left as we are with a theory of Games within language, another amusement, this time at the expense of the Art, a constant illusion of Now,

...in one sense, a gang of thieves who rush to the grotto in the dark to hack the white goddess into pieces and rush off with bits & pieces to proclaim her death in the cities.

That narration is a foible, yes of course! The procession begins at a certain point and ends at another, the conversation is the buzz of the mob intent as always upon destruction, an underlying morbidity, false trails.

"Nothing But Stars" To annihilate the author, it would seem at least prudent to discover who he is. He is, at the very least, not who he says he is...

and the rest? tired old maxims, reruns of the theories of Beaver Cleaver's Dad, polished up and sold as "New"

Problem is; "Now" is always passe.

(Not that it matters anymore)

The possibilities of a postmodernism.

2008-07-14T06:47:00.006-04:00

Flarf--

Flarf poetry can be characterized as an avant garde poetry movement of the late 20th century and the early 21st century. Its first practitioners practiced an aesthetic dedicated to the exploration of “the inappropriate” in all of its guises. Their method was to mine the Internet with odd search terms then distill the results into often hilarious and sometimes disturbing poems, plays, and other texts.--Wiki.

In this instance there is an intrusion of technology to replace the dominance of "I". The author is reduced to the role of clerk, sorting and filing stray bits of information. He becomes slaved to the technology at hand; and the poem depending on the amount of "self" allowed by the clerk is a report on the current state of affairs between the "I" and the available technology. Coherence is mostly often left to the audience. The poem becomes a partnership, a collaboration. Truth becomes a collection of the best available information.

--a central question arises as to the nature of the Muse. In a traditional sense, it may regarded as a sense of the Other, something beyond the self which might be called upon for guidence--in this new modern evolving sense it can be regarded as a reality based source of assembling thought which arise from a variety of sources which is based in the collective mind represented by technology. It is necessary to acknowledge that both are creations, tho the first has long been thought to be outside of Nature and the second has from its inception been a product of specific hardware. Nevertheless, occasionally something happens, either an existing wire gets snipped or a neuron makes a new connection and a poem comes into being.

It seems evident to me that the central tenet in all these instances of "automatic writing," by which I mean techniques, and not movements--is simply the debate on how to draw the "Not I" into existance, to suppress
"I"--in one interpretation to reduce the poet to Zombie; i.e. an automoton.

Further Exploration on the Cosciousness

2008-07-12T15:42:00.002-04:00

Good son, there are three ways of having: first, to have in the future, Secondly, to have at present, and thirdly, to have in the past. All sentient beings will have in future ages the most perfect enlightenment, i.e., the Buddha nature. All sentient beings have at present bonds of defilements, and do not now possess the thirty-two marks and eighty noble characteristics of the Buddha. All sentient beings had in past ages deeds leading to the elimination of defilements and so can now perceive the Buddha nature as their future goal. For such reasons, I always proclaim that all sentient beings have the Buddha nature.

Heng-Ching Shih, "The Significance Of 'Tathagatagarbha' -- A Positive Expression Of 'Sunyata.'" http://zencomp.com/greatwisdom/ebud/ebdha191.htm

the Problem of Consciousness as it relates to the Theory of the annihilation of the Narrator

2008-07-06T13:03:00.006-04:00

The "alienation of the subject is displaced by the latter's fragmentation," and indeed by the "death" of the subject itself--the end of the autonomous bourgeois monad or ego or individual." Coupled with that end is the end of a "unique style, along with the accompanying collective ideals of an artistic or political vanguard or avant-garde." The result is the now axiomatic "waning of affect" that manifests itself in an ability to produce satire or even parody, the latter giving way to "blank parody" or pastiche. "As for expression," writes Jameson, ". . . the liberation, in contemporary society, from the older anomie of the centered subject may also mean not merely a liberation from anxiety but a liberation from every other kind of feeling as well, since there is no longer a self present to do the feeling."

http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/perloff/langpo.html

Dharmakirti's argument can be formulated as follows: The consciousness of the new born infant comes about from a preceding instance of cognition, which is an instance of consciousness just like the present moment of consciousness.

DalaiLama, The universe in a single atom, The Convergence of Science and Spirituality, P 132.

Central to the Buddha's teaching is the doctrine of anatman: "not-self"." This does not deny that the notion of an "I" works in the everyday world. In fact we need a solid stable ego to function in society. However, "I" is not real in an ultimate sense. It is a "name": a fictional construct that bears no correspondence to what is really the case. Because of this disjunction all kinds of problems ensue. Once our minds have constructed the notion of "I," it becomes our central reference point. We attach to it and identify with it totally. We attempt to advance what appears to be its interests, to defend it against real or apparent threats and menaces. And we look for ego-affirmation at every turn: confirmation that we exist and are valued. The Gordian Knot of preoccupations arising from all this absorbs us exclusively, at times to the point of obsession. This is , however, a narrow and constricted way of being. Though we cannot see it when caught in the convolutions of ego, there is something in us that is larger and deeper: a wholly other way of being.
John Snelling

Jaynes, Julian Canadian Psychology, April 1986, Vol. 27 (2): 128-148 Canadian Psychological Association Symposium on Consciousness (1985, Halifax, Canada) The problem of consciousness and its corollary the mind body problem have been with us at least since Descartes. An approach to a solution to both may be begun by carefully analyzing consciousness into its component features and modes. It will then be seen that consciousness is based on language, in particular its ability to form metaphors and analogies. The result is that consciousness is not a biological genetic giver, but a linguistic skill learned in human history. Previous to that transitional period, human volition consisted of hearing voices called gods, a relationship I am calling the bicameral mind.

3.6. This view is not without precedent. Indeed, even the word for consciousness in English, Russian and the romance languages translates as co-knowledge, those aspects of mental life that are communicated or are potentially communicable. Russian psychology has capitalized on this etymology, emphasizing the enhancement of conscious function that comes from social cooperation and communication (Luria, 1981). Many psychologists from Wundt onward have pointed out the privileged position of language in human awareness.
3.7. The appearance of language as a communicative act generated by the planning mechanism brought with it some immediate and very powerful advantages. Not the least of these is that one also hears one's own speech, so that the plan-monitoring mechanism has immediate access to the plan-executing mechanism's products. In the process of development the loop can become internal, as pointed out by Vygotskii (1962) in his analysis of the importance of internal speech in human thinking. The whole planning process is made recursive, and the enormous power of human thought becomes available with a relatively minor change in a mechanism that all primates share. Again, this process allows quick evolution of a seemingly complex addition to the human brain.
3.8. Needless to say, these advantages created a strong selective pressure in early humans or pre-humans to improve the language faculty. The categorical nature of the components of speech (phonemes and words) made it possible to transfer an idea from one human's brain to another's, under reasonably favorable conditions, without error. The task was accomplished with the communicative advantages of hierarchical digital coding, combining a small set of qualitatively different phonemes to make up distinct words. This does not apply to other animal communication systems.
3.9. Up to this point the operation of the plan-executing function has addressed only narrative consciousness, awareness of one's perceptions and actions. In the current analysis, this sort of consciousness would have to be admitted in animals as well, to the degree that they can separate behavior from environment with a planning mechanism. But language changes everything. If the currently executed plan is a linguistic one, a plan to perform a communicative act rather than a conventional action sequence, one can become aware of one's own ideas; an enhanced self-consciousness becomes possible.

http://www.cogsci.ecs.soton.ac.uk/cgi/psyc/newpsy?3.15

The birth of a flower

2008-07-06T12:20:00.002-04:00

“[Description of an ancient Greek painting:] Let us ask the youth, my boy, who he is and what is the reason for Apollon’s presence with him, for he will not be afraid to have us, at least, look at him. Well, he says that he is Hyakinthos, the son of Oibalos; and now that we have learned this we must also know the reason for the god’s presence. The son of Leto for love of the youth promises to give him all he possesses for permission to associate with him; for he will teach him the use of the bow, and music, and understanding the art of prophecy, and not to be unskilful with the lure, and to preside over the contest of the palaestra, and he will grant to him that, riding in the chariot drawn by swans, he should visit all the lands dear to Apollon. Here is the god, painted as usual with unshorn locks; he lifts a radiant forehead above eyes that shine like rays of light, and with a sweet smile he encourages Hyakinthos, extending his right hand with the same purpose. The youth keeps his eyes steadfastly on the ground, and they are very thoughtful, for he rejoices at what he hears and tempers with modesty the confidence that is yet to come. He stands there, covering with a purple mantle the left side of his body, which is also drawn back, and he supports his right hand on a spear, the hip being thrown forward and the right side exposed to view, and this bare arm permits us to describe what is visible. He has a slender ankle below the straight lower leg, and above the latter this supple knee-joint; then come thighs not unduly developed and hip-joints which support the rest of the body; his side rounds out a full-lunged chest, his arm swells in a delicate curve, his neck is moderately erect, while the hair is not unkempt nor stiff from grime, but falls over his forehead and blends with the first down of his beard. The discus at his feet [missing text] about himself, and Eros (Love), who is both radiant and at just the same time downcast, and Zephyros who just shows his savage eye from his place of look-out - by all this the painter suggests the death of the youth, and as Apollon makes his cast, Zephyros, by breathing athwart its course, will cause the discus to strike Hyakinthos." - Philostratus the Younger, Imagines 14

http://www.theoi.com/Olympios/ApollonLoves.html#Hyakinthos

2008-07-04T14:31:00.001-04:00

Notes on Salutrean/Clovis debate.
But the surprise was that about 3 percent of the Native Americans tested had mtDNA from a different haplogroup, called X. Some populations, such as the Ojibwa from the Great Lakes region, have a high concentration of X - 25 percent.
http://www.pbs.org/saf/1406/features/dna2.htm

The name Ojibwa (pronounced oh-JIB-wuh), along with its variations, Ojibway, Ojibwe, Chippewa, and Chippeway, means “puckered up” and probably refers to a puckered seam in the style of moccasins tribal members wore. Their native name Anishinabe (pronounced ah-nish-ih-NAH-bay) means “first people.”

Some hold to the doctrine that Nanabozho created the animals for the food and raiment of man; that he caused those plants and roots to grow whose virtues cure disease and enable the hunter to kill wild animals in order to drive away famine. These plants he confided to the watchful care of his grandmother, the great-grandmother of the human race, Mesakkummikokwi, and lest man should invoke her in vain she was strictly forbidden ever to leave her lodge. So, when collecting plants, roots, and herbs for their natural and magic virtues, an Algonquian Indian faithfully leaves on the ground hard by the place whence he has taken the root or plant a small offering to Mesakkummikokwi.

In one version of the prevailing Algonquian cosmogonic story it is said that, before the formation of the earth, there was only water; that, on the surface of this vast expanse of water, floated a large raft on which were the animals of the various kinds which are on the earth and of which the Great Hare was the chief. They sought a fit and firm place on which to disembark; but as there were in sight only swans and other waterfowl, they began to lose hope, and, having no other, they requested the beaver to dive for the purpose of bringing up some earth from the bottom of the water, assuring him in the name of all the animals present that, should he return with only a single particle, it would produce an earth sufficiently spacious to contain and nourish all. But the beaver sought an excuse for refusal, saying that he had already dived around the raft and had failed to reach the bottom. He was pressed so strongly to make anew so worthy an attempt, however, that he took the hazard and dived. He remained without returning for so long a time that the supplicants believed him drowned. Finally they saw him appear nearly dead and motionless. Then all the animals, seeing that he was in no condition to remount the raft, at once interested themselves to take him into it. After examining carefully his paws and tail, they found nothing. But the little hope left them of being able to save their lives compelled them to address themselves to the otter to ask that he make an attempt to find earth at the bottom of the waters. It was told him that his own safety, as well as theirs, depended on the result of his effort. So the otter yielded to their urging and dived. He remained in the depths of the waters a longer time than did the beaver, but, like him, he came to the surface without success. The impossibility of finding a place to dwell where they could subsist left them nothing more to hope, when the muskrat offered to attempt to find the bottom, and he flattered himself that he would bring back sand. Although the beaver and the otter, much stronger than he, had not been able to accomplish the task, they encouraged him, promising even that, if he succeeded in his attempt, he should be the ruler of the whole world. The muskrat then cast himself into the waters and bravely dived into the depths. After remaining therein nearly an entire day and night he appeared motionless at the aide of the raft, belly uppermost and paws closed. The other animals carefully took him out of the water, opened one of his paws, then a second, then a third, and finally the fourth, where there was a small grain of sand between his claws. The Great Hare, who was encouraged to form a vast and spacious earth, took this grain of sand and let it fall on the raft, which became larger. He took a part and scattered it, which caused the mass to increase more and more. When it was of the size of a mountain he willed it to turn, and as it turned the mass still increased in size. As soon as it appeared quite large he gave orders to the fox to examine his work with power to enlarge it. He obeyed. The fox, having learned that the earth was of such size that he could easily take his prey, returned to the Great Hare to inform him that the earth was large enough to contain and nourish all the animals. After this report the Great Hare went over his work, and, on going around it, found it imperfect. He has since not been disposed to trust any one of all the other animals, and ever keeps on enlarging the earth by ceaselessly going around it. The rumblings heard in the caverns of mountains confirm the Indians in the belief that the Great Hare continues the work of enlarging the earth. He is honoured by them, and they regard him as the god who has formed the land.

2008-07-04T11:33:00.000-04:00

Invading countries to seize their natural resources is illegal under the Geneva Conventions. That means that the huge task of rebuilding Iraq's infrastructure -- including its oil infrastructure -- is the financial responsibility of Iraq's invaders. They should be forced to pay reparations. (Recall that Saddam Hussein's regime paid $9 billion to Kuwait in reparations for its 1990 invasion.) Instead, Iraq is being forced to sell 75 percent of its national patrimony to pay the bills for its own illegal invasion and occupation.

http://www.alternet.org/story/90409/?page=2&ses=8634ccd3db89bac9c3e06ac6160097c1

Thou Shalt Not Kill

2008-07-02T11:06:00.002-04:00

Thou Shalt Not Kill
by Kenneth Rexroth A Memorial for Dylan Thomas
I
They are murdering all the young men.
For half a century now, every day,
They have hunted them down and killed them.
They are killing them now.
At this minute, all over the world,
They are killing the young men.
They know ten thousand ways to kill them.
Every year they invent new ones.
In the jungles of Africa,
In the marshes of Asia,
In the deserts of Asia,
In the slave pens of Siberia,
In the slums of Europe,
In the nightclubs of America,
The murderers are at work.
They are stoning Stephen,
They are casting him forth from every city in the world.
Under the Welcome sign,
Under the Rotary emblem,
On the highway in the suburbs,
His body lies under the hurling stones.
He was full of faith and power.
He did great wonders among the people.
They could not stand against his wisdom.
They could not bear the spirit with which he spoke.
He cried out in the name
Of the tabernacle of witness in the wilderness.
They were cut to the heart.
They gnashed against him with their teeth.
They cried out with a loud voice.
They stopped their ears.
They ran on him with one accord.
They cast him out of the city and stoned him.
The witnesses laid down their clothes
At the feet of a man whose name was your name—
You.
You are the murderer.
You are killing the young men.
You are broiling Lawrence on his gridiron.
When you demanded he divulge
The hidden treasures of the spirit,
He showed you the poor.
You set your heart against him.
You seized him and bound him with rage.
You roasted him on a slow fire.
His fat dripped and spurted in the flame.
The smell was sweet to your nose.
He cried out,
“I am cooked on this side,
Turn me over and eat,
You
Eat of my flesh.”
You are murdering the young men.
You are shooting Sebastian with arrows.
He kept the faithful steadfast under persecution.
First you shot him with arrows.
Then you beat him with rods.
Then you threw him in a sewer.
You fear nothing more than courage.
You who turn away your eyes
At the bravery of the young men.
You,
The hyena with polished face and bow tie,
In the office of a billion dollar
Corporation devoted to service;
The vulture dripping with carrion,
Carefully and carelessly robed in imported tweeds,
Lecturing on the Age of Abundance;
The jackal in double-breasted gabardine,
Barking by remote control,
In the United Nations;
The vampire bat seated at the couch head,
Notebook in hand, toying with his decerebrator;
The autonomous, ambulatory cancer,
The Superego in a thousand uniforms;
You, the finger man of behemoth,
The murderer of the young men.
II
What happened to Robinson,
Who used to stagger down Eighth Street,
Dizzy with solitary gin?
Where is Masters, who crouched in
His law office for ruinous decades?
Where is Leonard who thought he was
A locomotive? And Lindsay,
Wise as a dove, innocent
As a serpent, where is he?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
What became of Jim Oppenheim?
Lola Ridge alone in an
Icy furnished room? Orrick Johns,
Hopping into the surf on his
One leg? Elinor Wylie
Who leaped like Kierkegaard?
Sara Teasdale, where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Where is George Sterling, that tame fawn?
Phelps Putnam who stole away?
Jack Wheelwright who couldn’t cross the bridge?
Donald Evans with his cane and
Monocle, where is he?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
John Gould Fletcher who could not
Unbreak his powerful heart?
Bodenheim butchered in stinking
Squalor? Edna Millav who took
Her last straight whiskey? Genevieve
Who loved so much; where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Harry who didn’t care at all?
Hart who went back to the sea?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Where is Sol Funaroff?
What happened to Potamkin?
Isidor Schneider? Claude McKay?
Countee Cullen? Clarence Weinstock?
Who animates their corpses today?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Where is Ezra, that noisy man?
Where is Larsson whose poems were prayers?
Where is Charles Snider, that gentle
Bitter boy? Carnevali,
What became of him?
Carol who was so beautiful, where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
III
Was their end noble and tragic,
Like the mask of a tyrant?
Like Agamemnon’s secret golden face?
Indeed it was not. Up all night
In the fo’c’sle, bemused and beaten,
Bleeding at the rectum, in his
Pocket a review by the one
Colleague he respected, “If he
Really means what these poems
Pretend to say, he has only
One way out—.” Into the
Hot acrid Caribbean sun,
Into the acrid, transparent,
Smoky sea. Or another, lice in his
Armpits and crotch, garbage littered
On the floor, gray greasy rags on
The bed. “I killed them because they
Were dirty, stinking Communists.
I should get a medal.” Again,
Another, Simenon foretold,
His end at a glance. “I dare you
To pull the trigger.” She shut her eyes
And spilled gin over her dress.
The pistol wobbled in his hand.
It took them hours to die.
Another threw herself downstairs,
And broke her back. It took her years.
Two put their heads under water
In the bath and filled their lungs.
Another threw himself under
The traffic of a crowded bridge.
Another, drunk, jumped from a
Balcony and broke her neck.
Another soaked herself in
Gasoline and ran blazing
Into the street and lived on
In custody. One made love
Only once with a beggar woman.
He died years later of syphilis
Of the brain and spine. Fifteen
Years of pain and poverty,
While his mind leaked away.
One tried three times in twenty years
To drown himself. The last time
He succeeded. One turned on the gas
When she had no more food, no more
Money, and only half a lung.
One went up to Harlem, took on
Thirty men, came home and
Cut her throat. One sat up all night
Talking to H. L. Mencken and
Drowned himself in the morning.
How many stopped writing at thirty?
How many went to work for Time?
How many died of prefrontal
Lobotomies in the Communist Party?
How many arc lost in the back wards
Of provincial madhouses?
How many on the advice of
Their psychoanalysts, decided
A business career was best after all?
How many are hopeless alcoholics?
Ren� Crevel!
Jacques Rigaud!
Antonin Artaud!
Mayakofsky!
Essenin!
Robert Desnos!
Saint Pol Roux!
Max Jacob!
All over the world
The same disembodied hand
Strikes us down.
Here is a mountain of death.
A hill of heads like the Khans piled up.
The first-born of a century
Slaughtered by Herod.
Three generations of infants
Stuffed down the maw of Moloch.
IV
He is dead.
The bird of Rhiannon.
He is dead.
In the winter of the heart.
He is Dead.
In the canyons of death,
They found him dumb at last,
In the blizzard of lies.
He never spoke again.
He died.
He is dead.
In their antiseptic hands,
He is dead.
The little spellbinder of Cader Idris.
He is dead.
The sparrow of Cardiff.
He is dead.
The canary of Swansea.
Who killed him?
Who killed the bright-headed bird?
You did, you son of a bitch.
You drowned him in your cocktail brain.
He fell down and died in your synthetic heart.
You killed him,
Oppenheimer the Million-Killer,
You killed him,
Einstein the Gray Eminence.
You killed him,
Havanahavana, with your Nobel Prize.
You killed him, General,
Through the proper channels.
You strangled him, Le Mouton,
With your mains �tendues.
He confessed in open court to a pince-nezed skull.
You shot him in the back of the head
As he stumbled in the last cellar.
You killed him,
Benign Lady on the postage stamp.
He was found dead at a Liberal Weekly luncheon.
He was found dead on the cutting room floor.
He was found dead at a Time policy conference.
Henry Luce killed him with a telegram to the Pope.
Mademoiselle strangled him with a padded brassiere.
Old Possum sprinkled him with a tea ball.
After the wolves were done, the vaticides
Crawled off with his bowels to their classrooms and quarterlies.
When the news came over the radio
You personally rose up shouting, “Give us Barabbas!”
In your lonely crowd you swept over him.
Your custom-built brogans and your ballet slippers
Pummeled him to death in the gritty street.
You hit him with an album of Hindemith.
You stabbed him with stainless steel by Isamu Noguchi,
He is dead.
He is Dead.
Like Ignacio the bullfighter,
At four o’clock in the afternoon.
At precisely four o’clock.
I too do not want to hear it.
I too do not want to know it.
I want to run into the street,
Shouting, “Remember Vanzetti!”
I want to pour gasoline down your chimneys.
I want to blow up your galleries.
I want to burn down your editorial offices.
I want to slit the bellies of your frigid women.
I want to sink your sailboats and launches.
I want to strangle your children at their finger paintings.
I want to poison your Afghans and poodles.
He is dead, the little drunken cherub.
He is dead,
The effulgent tub thumper.
He is Dead.
The ever living birds are not singing
To the head of Bran.
The sea birds are still
Over Bardsey of Ten Thousand Saints.
The underground men are not singing
On their way to work.
There is a smell of blood
In the smell of the turf smoke.
They have struck him down,
The son of David ap Gwilym.
They have murdered him,
The Baby of Taliessin.
There he lies dead,
By the Iceberg of the United Nations.
There he lies sandbagged,
At the foot of the Statue of Liberty.
The Gulf Stream smells of blood
As it breaks on the sand of Iona
And the blue rocks of Canarvon.
And all the birds of the deep sea rise up
Over the luxury liners and scream,
“You killed him! You killed him.
In your God damned Brooks Brothers suit,
You son of a bitch.”
Kenneth Rexroth, “Thou Shalt Not Kill” from The Collected Shorter Poems. Copyright © 1966 by Kenneth Rexroth. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation, www.wwnorton.com/nd/welcome.htm.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171537

The Possibilities of A Postmodernism

2008-06-26T13:04:00.006-04:00

Coherence:

"What we get is, in Van Bastelaere’s words, ‘parts of a whole that is missing’: there is no whole encompassing the elements of the poem, not even on the abstract level of a thematic synthesis. The postmodern poem, described by Mary Ann Caws as a ‘frame without a center’,40 debunks the idea that there exists something like a totality: the ‘worlds’ it evokes are, in the words of Brian McHale, ‘fragmentary, discontinuous, flipping back and forth between literal and figurative’"

Identity:

"The postmodern poem is, as Brian McHale writes, an ‘echo chamber in which discourses resound and mingle’ so confusingly that the reader is unable ‘to assimilate them to any single unitary or speaking-position’.46 He must then also renounce the idea that something like ‘the author’ is still present somewhere in the text as a central consciousness: Where the modernist still attempted to confront the fragmented chaos of reality by assuming a ‘subject of signification’, the postmodern poet gives up on the whole idea of an intentional subject."

Originality:

"There is no such thing as a source from which elements are derived, as now everything is derivative. Postmodern intertextuality then deliberately misleads its reader."

Perfection:

"The postmodern poem is the exact opposite of whatever presents itself as something perfect, as having a divine – because perfect and more than human – status, as it was earlier only found in nature. By being emphatically unnatural it opposes an artistic ideal that has been dominant sincethe romantics introduced the organic conception of art. The postmodernist will have nothing of such poetical pretension, and therefore presents his poem as im-perfect, in-complete: the loose ends are not to be read as imperfections that have been overlooked, but are essential in a poem that wants to express distrust of the totalizing claim of closed unity."

Intuition:

"The core of the problem of intuition is the unsolvable conflict between reason and feeling: is the poem the product of rational calculation (as is suggested in some of Krol’s poems) or has it been inspired from up above (which would make the role of intuition decisive, as the same Krol suggested when he announced his turn to an ‘anti-rational’ style, because he had allegedly ‘thought trough’ the whole process of rational thinking)? As ever, the issue cannot be reduced to an alleged choice by the postmodern poet for one or the other option. Reason and intuition, spirit and body – both extremes are being problematized and are presented in postmodern discourse less as opposite poles than as each other’s radicalization."

Autonomy:

"It should be clear that the postmodern poet’s reconsideration of poetical autonomy is never tempted to simply opt for a poetics that has historically always opposed this autonomy. For reasons already mentioned when we discussed the problem of identity, he refuses a form of poetry in which the poetical subject expresses its deepest feelings or, from some burning desire to oppose injustice, furiously attacks reality. His attempt at immersion in reality relates in a complicated way to the remoteness of modern(ist) poetry. He does not accept the idea that the finished poem has completely emancipated itself from its author, but at the same time he radicalizes the epistemological doubt that brought the modernists to that idea: where the modernists at times already did not dare to claim full responsibility for the finished poem, the postmodernists positively deny the possibility of any such control over language."

Morality:

"In an age that has renounced all Grand Narratives, and that refuses to believe in any legitimizing foundation for human existence, the choice for an ethical subject for poetry is far from obvious. Still, some poets return to moral matters – questions concerning literature (‘this is how poetry ought to be written’) and questions concerning moral life – even when they are aware of the impossibility or inadvisability of any thinking in terms of good and evil. Their problem is that of morality.
The poet who rejects the ‘anything goes’, who opposes the idea that there are ‘no traffic signs, no prohibitions and no rules’, does see certain norms, which clears the way for a new poetic engagement with morality. The postmodern poet wants to show how everything is determined by hidden and/or unconscious norms. But the fact that he sees these norms does not entails that he also welcomes, or even designs them. He does not prescribe any morality, but rather reminds himself and his reader that, after the demise of all shared meaning structures, each individual has to assume his own moral responsibility, a responsibility that brings new uncertainties."

http://www.thomasvaessens.nl/VaessensPostmodernPoetry.pdf

Flarf Vs Conceptual; The Undercurrents of Accessibility

2008-06-25T09:14:00.005-04:00

Anyway, my point is this: I feel, within my poetic soul, a great conflict between the knowledge that poetry must change and grow and adapt over time, and my feeling that the path(s) poetry has taken have served only as roads away from the public. And, given where poetry is (still a burning question, I’d think, though I’ll take this “debate” between Flarf and conceptual poetry as a starting point), I am unsure as to how (if at all) the two (theat is, the continued evolution of poetry & the public consciousness) can be reconciled.

http://headylit.wordpress.com/2008/06/17/flarf-v-conceptual-poetry-or-sorrow-abundant/

Some do so in terms that enable them to reach broader audiences, but others don’t avail themselves of that choice, taking what I might call the Stein / Zukofsky / Beckett / Joyce / Watten road instead. The idea that one road (the Creeley / Grahn et al road) is morally superior to the Stein et al road is, I think, defensible only – and I do mean only – if you think that the population of the US, and the other English-speaking countries, is so deeply, even permanently damaged that a truly literate art of language can never fully exist. That’s a possibility, but I’m much more of an optimist than that.

http://ronsilliman.blogspot.com/

One is reminded of an old tree that was struck by lightening in the distant past. One side is somewhat scant of growth with few branches, the other is much bushier but seems to have a lot of dead branches.

There has, and one hopes there will always continue to be a popular poetry, designed and for the most written for the masses. I need not detail its bastardisation in western culture, it's usurpation by the mass media, etc.
Its existence I believe is predicated more on entertainment than education,--education being a by-product rather than a primary facet for its existence. It has, only recently diverged into the more esoteric path which we are now obliged to confront. My own inclination would put the separation at the Elizabethan period, or the Renaissance in other parts of Europe. Mr. Silliman pushes it back somewhat to the Troubadours. One might even make a case for the Romans and the Greeks having such a dichotomy between the popular & the elitist. (hate that word, indicates an exclusionary element, which is not an accurate representation of the reach of the Art).

Predicating that separation then upon the entertainment value on the one hand, and the investigation of the great ideas on the other, Mr. Silliman refers to a " truly literate art of language" it seems evident to me that the latter could never aspire to a mass audience given a narrower and narrower beam of focus; although the tree opens to more and more branches; the area of expertise and interest shrinks. It is as Matthew hopes above, an evolutionary specialisation exclusionary only in that its practitioners become smaller in number. In that sense, there is no "True Path", no right way, no Truth, outside of Plato's which we may aspire to yet never apprehend. Even Physics assures us that there is always a further point in the universe; how then can we hope for a conjunction between thought and language?

As to greater access and broader audiences, the advent of the Web may, indeed, must increase the questors; yet on the other hand the very precarious state of civilisation itselfs precludes any false hope from arising. A more fitting subject I suppose for another investigation.

George Carlin (1937-2008)

2008-06-24T10:30:00.002-04:00

"I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up linked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond!

I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive.

Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I've got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial!
I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers.

I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail.

But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing-- a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down, but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant.

I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore--no soft porn.

I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity.

I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Drivin and movin, sailin and spinin, jiving and groovin, wailin and winnin. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin tough, over and out!"

~George Carlin, a comedic genius and poet extraodinaire

Poetry, scavanged from a list of things.

2008-06-24T09:05:00.002-04:00

po·et·ry -tr)
n.
1. The art or work of a poet.
2.
a. Poems regarded as forming a division of literature.
b. The poetic works of a given author, group, nation, or kind.
3. A piece of literature written in meter; verse.
4. Prose that resembles a poem in some respect, as in form or sound.
5. The essence or characteristic quality of a poem.
6. A quality that suggests poetry, as in grace, beauty, or harmony: the poetry of the dancer's movements.
Middle English poetrie, from Old French, from Medieval Latin
Poetry (from the "Greek+language" "ποίησις", poiesis, a "making" or "creating") is a form of "art" in which "language" is used for its "aesthetics" and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its ostensible "meaning+(linguistics)". Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in "poetic+drama", "hymn" or "lyrics".

poetry

Writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through its meaning, sound, and rhythm. It may be distinguished from "prose" by its compression, frequent use of conventions of "metre" and "rhyme", use of the line as a formal unit, heightened vocabulary, and freedom of syntax. Its emotional content is expressed through a variety of techniques, from direct description to symbolism, including the use of "metaphor" and "simile".
"White+Goddess" the goddess of ancient fertility and the moon whose worship is claimed by Robert Graves to be the origin of poetry. [Br. Lit.: Benét, 1087]

The Polish historian of aesthetics, Władysław Tatarkiewicz, in a paper on "The Concept of Poetry," traces the evolution of what is in fact two "concepts" of poetry. Tatarkiewicz points out that the term is applied to two distinct things that, as the poet "Paul Valary" observes, "at a certain point find union. Poetry [...] is an art based on language. But poetry also has a more general meaning [...] that is difficult to define because it is less determinate: poetry expresses a certain "mind"." .

""/poetry" \l "endnote_Concept13"

habeas corpus

2008-06-19T09:22:00.003-04:00

http://www.constitution.org/eng/habcorpa.htm

http://airamerica.com/content/maddow-happy-habeas-corpus-restoration-day

http://odur.let.rug.nl/~usa/D/1400/magna.htm

http://www.supremecourtus.gov/opinions/07pdf/06-1195.pdf

Machiavelli, or the Death of Iran.

2008-06-18T09:03:00.000-04:00

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/steve-rosenbaum/when-mccain-drops-out_b_107236.html

2008-06-03T15:30:00.001-04:00

http://www.alternet.org/democracy/86973/

http://www.democracynow.org/2008/6/3/anti_torture_activists_convicted_jailed_for

http://www.democracynow.org/2008/6/2/blackwater_jeremy_scahill_on

What is Poetry?

2008-05-20T08:36:00.000-04:00

http://www.maulpoix.net/US/Diversity.html

2008-03-21T10:06:00.002-04:00

http://www.ubuweb.com/papers/williams.html