“My students keep saying ‘I’ll see you in Rockland.’” At night – the wind can seem stronger then – I noticed green shoots that would later harden into branches and had the idea of a scalpel parting the leaves. “But I don’t think they mean the town.’” “I'll see your nothing and raise you nothing.” “I have lost my notes but maybe I will find them during my nap.” Lascaux sans image. Johnny must have slipped me a Mickey because the next thing I knew everything started to go blank and I found myself on the floor next to the coach [couch?] and she was saying to me: “[Quote removed by Tom Raworth for further study]” The gap in agape. 31. Arakawa / Gins: “Forming Blank” (tube / twisted tube / ……… ). 31. Fill in the blank: ______, ________, _______. 31. Poetry fakes nothing actually. “I’m with you in Rockland / where you must feel very strange.” The other theory Secor debunked for the National Geographic program was that the alligator dinner was so enormous the python simply burst. In the red trees everybody sings and fire loves milk, don’t tell me, okay, tell me. My Astronomy falls regal to the side, like a lamb’s leg. I am fried-ballooned. The “nutrient enema” was a last resort for people who, the thinking went, would otherwise starve. As we all know now, we don’t really want to be entombed in these huge mausoleums while cheesy music is piped out into what can’t really be air and we can watch the guy demo remote controlled mini helicopters. We used to want that. But what we want has its season. Still, there it is, attached to an office tower on one end and a food court on the other. First we went to the food court, then I went, alone, to the consulate office. I had committed an irregularity, yes or no? It was the best day. “Tracking the affect channel.” We meditated upon the shard of ochre clay with the mud still on it. There was a candle. Something very new happened. The vortex -- titrated, a breach, the red lightning bolt in the riverbank. The counter-vortex -- all those broken off bits of blue. “AND HE SAYS TO YOU, HELLO MY NAME IS HERMAN BLUEWINKLE, AND YOU SAY, MY NAME IS HEGEMONY CRICKET, AND HE SAYS, I’M IN ELECTRONICS, WHAT DO YOU DO? AND YOU SAY, I’M THE BIG OTHER, AND HE SAYS, I CLICK LIKE, MAN.” Is it my camel hair underpants? The undetectable breeze near the entrance caught a selection of pieces by Tam Van Tran at Ameringer McEnery Yohe’s booth. The large wall hangings covered in glimmering strips of thin copper shuddered in the air. Kelly Heaton at Ronald Feldman Fine Arts also had works that responded to the space, although in a much more technological way than Tam Van Tran’s. Each of the paintings and sculptures are laced with circuits that sound, some activated when you come near, others with crickets that grow quiet if you get too close. Wow. I must say right off the bat that the knots in my stomach over the manuscript have eased a bit after these two messages. What on earth could that dream mean? Was it Freud who said it’s not about meaning, per se, but why the dream and whatever it expresses find the particular form for the messaging? Why the hell is Flux, Clot & Froth ruining itself while sprouting new life?? What is with the unrecognizable image introducing nature’s hoary objects consuming the book? Why am I a German china doll, or worse, in your dream? I do like what I said about “broken essays”; will have to mull that one over. In many ways, they are, in the sense that the intense revision it just went through involved tossing all pretenses toward accuracy out the window in pursuit of something more fundamentally pleasurable; I believe accuracy hasn’t necessarily disappeared, but it has a new lease on new life. But enough about my damned manuscript (and you mention Moby Dick, my fave lol). What I REALLY want to know is why are we all gathered around baseball? What was it that was on / in the field? Who won? Very curious.
[Note: Sources: woman in restroom overheard by Susan M Schultz, FB post and comments, 9 Mar 013 (“whereupon another woman and I say, ‘Carl Solomon, Howl, mental hospital’!”); J Vera Lee, “Next Big Thing: J. Vera Lee”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 11 Mar 013; Charles Bernstein, “freedom is never free”, as quoted in Franklin Winslow, “Great Moments in Taches Blanches by Charles Bernstein”, at Poem of the Month, 5 Nov 012 (tache blanc = white spot (think of the Rauschenberg-erased De Kooning)); Allen Ginsberg, “Howl”; Mary Roach, Gulp; Nate Chinen, “Lucky Stars (Thursday Night Express Poems)”, at Combo 3; Patrick Durgin, “from Color Music”, at Combo 3; Arielle Guy, “The End of Suffering”, as quoted in Guy’s “The End of Suffering”, at Dharma Not Drama, 11 Mar 013; Roger Gathman, “An Incident at Lennox Mall”, at Limited, Inc., 11 Mar 013; Bhanu Kapil, “Notes from the Counter-Vortex”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 11 Mar 013; Ted Berrigan, On The Level Everyday: Selected Talks On Poetry And The Art Of Living, as quoted in blurb for same at KARMA; Lee Ann Roripaugh, FB Post, 11 Mar 013; JBR (paralleling Ted Berrigan’s original, which reads, “AND HE SAYS TO YOU, HELLO MY NAME IS HERMAN BLUEWINKLE, AND YOU SAY, MY NAME IS TED BERRIGAN, AND HE SAYS, I’M IN ELECTRONICS, WHAT DO YOU DO? AND YOU SAY, I’M A POET, AND HE SAYS, HOLY SHIT, MAN.”); Steven Kuusisto, “Getting My Malarky [sic] Back”, at Planet of the Blind, 11 Mar 013; Allison Meier, “The ADAA Art Show Celebrated Its 25th Year with a Moody Affair”, at Hyperallergic, 11 Mar 013; Jared Schickling, email, rec’d 11 Mar 013 approx 5:58 PDT (he’s responding to a dream I had after reading some of his essays: “I rarely if ever dream about anything related (that I can relate, at least) to events of the previous day. I was, for some reason, at a series of high school baseball games. Between games, there were a lot of people talking about poetry, showing each other broadsides, etc. At one point one of them turned to me. It was you. Strangely, you were very small, maybe 4 ft tall, and looked like a young boy. Anyhow, you said, “I forgot to tell you. These are all broken essays.” As in, you had broken them intentionally. A few minutes later someone else, who had been telling me that he had had a hard time at Yale, and luckily was taken into the home of a shopkeeper, asked to see a copy of my Flux, Clot & Froth. When I opened the copy I had with me I found an illustration I didn’t recognize (a woodcut or something) on the first page. Then, upon turning the page, all I found were holes in the pages, which were full of twigs and other stuff, like a cross between birds’ nests and caves. There were hundreds of them as I turned what remained of the pages (not the same one, as if I were going deeper and deeper, but new ones).”)]