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Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XIX

" . . . over that red smoke, Amen."
No better way is upon her.
 . . . Lie to us in peace.
I must see your sweet problems,
 . . . spared delight which laughs more.
Patience observe and balance every picture.

Above thought, I’m old.
I see and lick a grand river!
 . . . Her brother won't lose his grip.

Your giddy impression influences every rigid form.
Kiss it always.
 . . . a deep paragon turned round.
Relate to me, how a dirty canvas comes.
 . . . I have him fast,
I feel a subject - you.

Important discovery, did our mind paint an opportunity?
 . . . Many who choose, don’t impress.
I am mostly which sculpts,
After cunning delight,
 . . . thought will appears pregnant, of that I'm sure.
Do soft manic canvases about fresh life.

Make an electric picture.
Models want luscious delusions.
 . . . Walk my favorite! Have soft clever respect.
You finger a good society.
Always meant a serious heart,
 . . . how to sculpt a glorious smear.

Two. Cuddle and never use pride.
Forever observe our grand space.
 . . . Act crazy, trotting through his sculpture.
Mister please, have harmony!
That clean fun when found, blocks totally.
 . . . Show my sculpture, and green water.
Use delight, mellifluous talk on dating.
 . . . Already he means an enormous break.
Couplets here speak out.

Buddy, I want hot beer.
 . . . Get out!
We present our time outs, an awesome wild pain.
Glitter, shimmer, some laugh, and care.
Why complain?
 . . . Stop to see guilt, only whose is it?
Serious art throws a laughing solution.
The peace which I open,
 . . . sculpts dirty Death.

'Tis you little Sister, Breathe sweetly."
Poster of my studio's raging dreams.
 . . . Not many have love.
We cleaned our dust there,
before my bovine smoke party.
 . . . Seek your last thought in Beauty.
Heal, have control over us.
We believe still in sky, in a dark chocolate howl.
 . . . Way hot, full-assed, dark, soft cooking.

Write how to improve, almost, as only can a king.
No glorious awesome electric fantasy,
 . . . Love me in the original,
Curious, from a grand hair-do.
Try and run! I'm all gone, see? I'm bold.
   Fine. If at home eat out.

 . . . Sculpt Angel,
Fill a glorious missive.
Handle fingers in scores, we smear a wasted earth.
Dazzle, imagine smoke, my art river.
She does see that last free canvas,
 . . . add up to life's star.
Smoke cunning, Husband!
‘Till, I question, I try, in my rough bitter fast,
 . . . to start a submissive life.

Show night lust denial.
I'd better be ripe,
 . . . I won't ever play or strum.
Take this perfume home.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XVIII

Tell Joy she looms around Angels.
 . . . No grand diagnoses, . . . disco reveries.
Merciful blue scripture, read as a song of anguish.

Icy laughs if you can see.
 . . . I would have thought to envy the gate,
 . . . delved above him, scratched, or chiseled on canvas.
Dazzle, pressured on, we live dirty.
Why men must confront our Saturday affair,
 . . . a key opportunity beside my moon.

My fear, if it is a miss, observes,
Walk Mama, silhouette freedom!
Now share, a negative angry angel!
 . . . (Need our sculpture worry?
They said rivalry wasted dreams.)
 . . . Here, when filmed wild, it's sad,
Daddy needs good smoke.

I endeavor to choose an old soft ritual.
 . . . On Crete, a Mother of film walks,
 . . . they have lost patience.
Come obsessive Partner, it shows your set.
" . . . I'm another - what completes?
"I have form, obdurate metaphor!"

Please believe we can't go there,
Above our faith in brains, raw partner,
 . . . Care strokes best.
Make a thin grass opinion,
Mounted metaphor.
 . . . Come Sir, try some moon child.

"Chisel freedom, she's all fed up."
Go easy, shouldn't some negative understanding
 . . . eat the original spirit of love.

A happy nihilist Mama sees,
 . . . who could have resented my sculpture
 . . . good I mind the reasons, why life should appear.
See, old society means a dark 'n dirty lash.
Breathe, disgrace our presence
 . . . when a wild slave instrument demands more,
Esteemed fellow come hither.

He affects, and breaks a line of weed.
 . . . Can I call nature sweet?
Happy Angel breaks in one pass.
The life which she formed,
 . . . So did he care for them?
We are all language.

Such a wild chant is Music,
 . . . "Imagine a beautiful husband."
Observe, we spoke of her money jungle.
So delight in anger,
    Take an offering,
    Go by us, it is kids!
They have shame!
Rude girl-faced serpent,
I've shared that masterpiece,
     This Sister was Gal envy.

Beauty, form and thought, have silhouette.
Have that sleep intimacy.
     His every joy will glitter,
     See, I'm a symbol of space.
I'd better laugh, if observation is opinion
Cry fantasy education! 'Chant!' she would say.

As a flight movie break character,
Soon your temper must ebb,
 . . . Thou would live electric . . .

Peace at dusk Brother!

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XVI

Strength secures your last thought,
     So model me, stop the lust party,
Your body blossoms through ruin.
Know and compose,
     a street's electric instrument passion.
A sharp find was a mellifluous Hawaiian water bird.

Live bold, and laugh as I make impressions.
Dying knows a community sensed water,
     life energy modeled blue.
Sculpt her red, as a song of anguish.
Take all, confront absurd risk.
     Who thinks sweet, with a favorite movie?
     The surface was almost concrete.
Aware of him, this made a mess
Share, don't throw our water, then junk wood, to think clever.

Give me your wild Kate, on your next day home.
He's the husband of an Angel,
     Young babe, demand when we make deep sky.
Can I question my wife?
Who thinks, totally, how solutions
     would even write on empty shards?
Or choose a straight water ritual.
Come you need caution.
     I can read about her denial, for a psychedelic drug

This mare above him cares.
Yell that gut missive!
     My son goes to our grand bed alive.
Arvo, as author-songwriter, became a perfect dirty rose,
An emotional aesthete,
     never dry smoked a companion.

I have obdurate form.
Mom, choose the metaphor,
     sounds that may please comfort us.
Trust that we'd join you, let passion become art!
"Ninety learned demands . . ."
     at best, I see all you heard.

Understand why our absurd innocent wife,
     won't cover the sun.
In all ways, she spun a beautiful, faithful breath instrument . . .
     I was in pain, with our nervy abuse.
"Actor!" Is this how you verse of Moon?.
I must thank-you Father.

I observed suffering, dark unity,
     drawn about a witch's romance.
Only you will model.
Tomorrow is on top of you, so choose.
May we present psychedelic observations?
     The Grand River dresses every idea with sugar.

So a child can run, don't lead our nefarious system with chocolate.
     Slather that blue.
Think, then drink nights.
     Can this be right?
A tempered sexual fright chisels beauty in music.
     The dirty queen sleeps with your brother.

My dark anger at night . .
     goes openly with my story of her strange doctor.
Take good nerve, my homey.

To me we hold a loathe-some babbling process . . .
     My grand sane wife, pities me.
"Daddy! Such memories seen from Mama!"

She chants from water.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Song of 81 Poems, XVII

Sinner, represent my Beauty.
Notice if I get those crass sounds.
     Stand by my sculpture.

Draw your companion's curious color,
    we cared about cunning trouble.
Please, I must go to where dead skulls appear.
Share my songs, write my observations.
why I will paint in empty language.
     Follow progress, heal a tree.

Sale of editions: "Muse sees all my Late Energy."
His drunken style was back up. Health too.
     He learned himself that Death, wants in.
To compose form, Mother crushed your bold friend!
When rules think, he sings a guilty space.
   Dust grew a nude-mind metaphor.
An impressionist light piece.
A shame you missed our broken secret.
     Honey, you helped about cymbal rhythms.

Hold, feel your subject, follow no hate.
     Sense must water tea.
Her old man's looking sharp.
Her smokey laugh is so good.
     Soon dark despair will laugh.
Famously, trash bad wood.
Father knows, and learns inclusive dark earth.
   It means on Friday she's so arid.
Have no smoke in manic diversity.
I can't stay around. Say ohm.
   Petitions, they avoid or give reach to insanity.
I was caught, and must know Music.
   Tend every repressed sister
Learned fellow, isn't your Mom around?
Before, "Best in Brooklyn" can categorize spirit and harmony.

Fantasy: a boy's an aggressive double,
   stuck to every limpid loser.
Do cuddle, never use pride.
My Queen's sexy gown smokes no grass.
   Whose struggles do you observe?
A sad mother?
"Look Baby, a Walkman!"
I have her city, willing.
   We measure, glorious Doctor, an ancient childhood.
All love creatures home, how I am enough?
Rainbow, this impulse is soft and looking spotted.
   Marry me.

Scream Partner.
Our poor tune, tie'd down to become a husband,
   True full colors, in bestial emotion.
Don't give in. Betroth her.
A lying solution's better than money.
   Always will a way out.
What deep society is under my storm?
Some paint a repressed peace,
    draw delusions with color.
Should the monkey have come?

Yes, your brother gets electric,
     about this as I stir.
You dress his deep street language of life.
Love my cooking, important music has grown full.
   We compose harmony by deep dance.

Worry pain, afraid of concrete shame, psychedelic passion
   Sanity at last, empowers space.
Days, open that impression.

Take her innocent degenerate thought,
For when her wasted part forms like a baby,
   she sings for a stranger.

Please bless your breath, greasily drawn.
   She found dance, and can suffer.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Monday, October 22, 2012

Young Headed

Young headed . . . Sleep my mate, innocent . . .
Sculpt your glorious peace.
Feel music, art that yet chants a fresh imagination.
I am feeling better.
Give chameleon strength to my electric understanding.

Will I buckle? Almost . . .
Me, can I call? Be ours.
Know how important cuts emulate character
To scream this before,
You picture no crowd above . . .
Love notable nature, how surreal blindness, . . . gives music.
We have come . . . she ends the question.
Are you feeling better notorious creature?
A sun rainbow!

The impulse is soft in looking spotted
It affects, and breaks a line of weed.

Poster of my studio's raging dreams,
How big will be patience in my clever life?
Go experiment like a bird!
Appear calm, luxurious. Joy.

Despair observation, Play with solution
Mean stranger, periods are our brain fight!
Anger is some key, in solvent language
Movies aren't seeing sane,
Idols more for dirty use.
Children can run, should the monkey have come?
Rude girl-faced serpent,
Curious from grand hair!
Endless obsessive sex, not great passion,
Cramps our communal thought.

Nude, we can buy the tinker a hollow piece,
And reach aesthetic cleanliness.
Like glitter would shriek,
. . . a degenerate show.

Friday February 15, 2008, with Niki Notarile, 55, 56, 57


  The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4  5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Sunday, October 21, 2012

School of Hard Knocks

January 1, 1984

The New Year ushered in with a restless sleep - bombs and firecrackers exploding all night.

Dreams of white rats loose in my apartment, pursued by furry white weasels which eventually caught and killed them. In my dream, the pursuit happened slowly, a time-lapse chase up the side of my bedroom door. I noticed the weasel's fur was tattered and falling out, as if they had been stuffed, then I came to the conclusion that they were stuffed, from Uncle Freddie's collection at Trophy Lodge. Somehow during my sleep they had come off their mounts and begun to run around the house.

Yesterday I worked five hours alone in the cutting room, then took the subway to Soho and bought a Japanese print for P____ and M____ as their wedding present, in the process seeing a lot of other prints which I've decided that I want for myself. The gallery I visited is called Azuma. Mr. Azuma himself is an intelligent little Japanese man who speaks hardly any English but somehow understands perfectly just what you mean. He makes very good prices, and has, besides many floating world prints, fine swords, and ceramics.

Web Keene came over for a brief chat, and gave me a list of some good books to read. We talked about the traveller's life. Soon he'll be leaving the University of Chicago to do field work in Indonesia. After that he wants to teach and write. "Isn't it awfully hot down there?" I asked him. "Yes," he said. "Thats why I'm trying to pick an island with high mountains."

"That sounds like the same kind of decision as finding an apartment," I quipped. "Not too hot, language easy to master, natives friendly, not too spoilt by the white man." We laughed about this.

"It really doesn't matter where I do my field work," he said. "Everywhere there are people living, and that is good material for a study. But I have to make use of the people at Chicago, and Indonesia is their specialty. It would be foolish to ignore that!"

Choices. What are the reasons we think we obey when we make choices? They may not be the real cause, or even lead to the desired effect. Reason's a bridge to somewhere uncertain from a place that's already abandoned. The bridge therefor is one of style, and thus, a vanity.

Chris told me of a dream he had, seeing a deer under water, in the surf by an ocean beach. Even its antlers were submerged. It was running along just as if it were on dry land. This made me think of what it would be like to see a humpbacked whale in the woods. You would come upon it, resting, in a grove of pines, then it would swim slowly away, giant flukes brushing away the limbs, belly gliding over the ferns.

New Year's Poetry reading at St. Marks. Allan Ginsberg was there, presiding. The School of Hard Knocks did a marvelous dance. A few good poets read, though it was generally impossible to concentrate. R_____ was there looking very pretty.


Tuesday December 20, 1983

Talks with PA on the phone about Jean-Luc Godard, and his recent film "Passion". Godard refuses to let any thought, character, location, even synchronization of soundtrack with picture, become certitude, as if anything established or accepted in conventional film language were death itself. Instead his language evolves into a new kind of 'anti-fabric', of film syntax. He enjoys flirting with norms and conventions, then disrupting, corrupting, overwhelming in obsessive and destructive bouts.

It's a film about activities, about a filmset, about fornications in a nearby hotel, about the hirings and firings at a local manufacturer, all mishmashed together, with all the connecting tissue somehow implied, never explained, always glimpsed with pieces missing, so much missing that the story ultimately, if one could say there was a story, has to be imagined.

It's a film about flux, flux as in solder, flowing hot sputtering always at the verge of congealing and becoming hard, but by constantly applying the hot iron Godard keeps the flows of energy moving forward, abandoning the present for something more present, more of the 'now' never quite getting behind enough to call it 'past', a film whose dialogue can never quite be annealed together into anything that could be labelled a logical statement. The film makes no statement, it is anti-statement, and insists that over and over again by leading the viewer to expect some sort of logical clue or tidbit of storyline logic ala the normal expository manner of directing and writing, instead Godard revels in disappointment of this faculty. What is left over but film itself, the images, and the soundtrack which do nothing to explain each other, yet somehow dance. He has taken the rucksack of modern cinema and emptied it out onto the table, cut it up, added perturbed visions, macerations, and dislocutions and dislocations. This becomes then a dizzying ride, an emptying out of the barrel, an expurgation of the clotted nonsense and all that linear time-flow exposition has become.

"Here is what I don't mean!" he shouts at his viewer, or, "It means nothing here either!" . . ."What you are seeing is imaginary!", . . . "This happened on a set!" . . . "I contrived this".

His vignettes, are insets of bit of drama which pretend to be his actor/models 'true' orientations or preferences . .  and then once viewed, we realize these too have been contrived.

What Godard has cut OUT of "Passion", are all the elements around which all other feature films seem to be constructed. He's abandoned the very elements which most filmmakers deem essential, story, consistency of character, logic, cause and effect. He introduces no characters, establishes nothing, neither time-line, space or character. The order of events, the normal dramatic 'glue' is not to be found. Not the tiniest element fastened to anything else. And by so defeating the natural lignin holding the film corpus together, he defeats memory itself. The whole structure collapses into the bowels of the subconscious, split seconds after viewing each shot.

Meaning derives from association, not connection or direction. He fears we'll know or learn too much about his formula, which after all is anti-formula, or his characters which are anti-character, or his locations which are anti-location. It seems to be Godard's task as director to prevent us from sating our curious minds to finish whatever he starts in ways that we are used to, conscious that those leaps of imagination are the real film, and that bits of celluloid are merely the inconsequential head and tail of the mind-shot, the identifying slates to a never recorded mental-work, a black spot or abyss whose mystery would disappear if ever a light were made to shine upon it. So we constantly circle and touch with our eyes closed but never invade with the film medium, only with the film possibility. That possibility is of the thing we imagine, an assembly of starts and stops with the centers missing, the center he knows lies fully crafted within our psyche.


Talks with Michael at Cafe Dante over cafe amarettos. Mike's full of thoughts, responses to my updates on Merchant-Ivory developments. Mostly we spoke about Ismail, the need to see scripts developed, a little like the tending of a good seed bed, a nursery of ideas. This Ismail does not see the value of. I think I said something like the direction of Merchant Ivory is being decided by what Ismail reads before going to bed.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

The Redwood

Beneath a Sequoian Titan, I thought I understood,
How light that comes down from sky,
 . . . grew that giant redwood.
The desire of that tree, is not to be just wood,
Rather that she tries to reach, her lover if she could.

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