At this point in the poem, it’s 5:30 in the morning when Pam calls from Raleigh, saying Fred’s had a heart attack. For a few hours everything is weird and cold. We hear by 8 it’s minor, no damage done to the muscle. But from now on, “if it tastes good, spit it out.” The things I was saying followed logically the things that I had said before, a pause, a rose, something on paper. We who, etc. Before, I understood what had come between the stars, to form the constellations, but now, but, now that I was “old enough to make my own decisions,” I was trippin like everyone else. Ah God it’s real isn’t it! ((Alfie and Zak) Nina’s back to work now) The militant congratulations of the department secretaries, the broad smile on the face of the woman who works in the cafe, the delight of colleagues ... there’s a squirrel! A bird! Many birds! Coffee tastes delicious! And none of this is hard! And it’ll be fine, because, we’ll get them! (Whether or not another world is possible) Have either of you read Gogol’s “The Nose”? Strange, as I was just thinking yesterday (discussion of hive mind in an interview) that at some point I must do a chapbook on bees. I believe Deborah is etymologically related to bees (Hebrew) (My mom’s name is Rebecca, and she thought she was named after the one with the nurse Deborah. Thus my name. Then she found out she was named after the Rebecca of Daphne Du Maurier. She was pissed. lol). Your email soon. “To know death you have to fuck life.” “Give me time somebody [space space space] curl the walls.” “The walls snap back and we tune out the showing.” “Stand up and salute the trace [space space] a bluish glow.” “Turgid? Bunk.” “Up ahead it’s all dragon butter and a ray glow.” Effluent, industry, class. You need a community to receive the light that is released when the body is ruptured. This is a theory of sacrifice I went over with Alphonso Lingis on the BART. He said yes, yes. We talked about sun worship -- the hooks in the back. And don’t forget they also had bad movies and television shows in their junk pile, random conversations at the bar, a slap by one of their parents growing up, and certain time constraints. That’s what they had to work with. Somehow they have to mash it all together. Maybe they got the flu. No matter. Viruses too can be materials in a bricolage. At any rate, through their shaving, fitting, taping, and jamming, they manage to make a monster that can stand … Or maybe not. They stole my winds from the wooden crates where I kept my clothes. And from the gates of the South they stole the croaking of my frogs (bass-2-dark / treble-2-bright). I am taking down the blue hood and wire and stones. They accomplished something and it’s done, the tree has been watered now the tree can just take care of that whole area. And may we consider a more recent poet like the Chilean Raúl Zurita, still living and making work of daring experiment and vision? He is, aside from searing, internationally renowned books like Purgatorio, INRI, and Anteparadiso, the “author” of the most monumentally scaled poems in human history, bigger than the Nazca Plain hieroglyphs — written (literally) in the sky, in the desert, and (forthcoming) on cliff-faces that fall to the ocean. In the late 70s and early 80s, Zurita was one of the leading activists of the Colectivo Acciones de Arte, an underground cell of innovative artists and intellectuals whose courage deﬁes belief. Their guerrilla actions involved auto-mutilation in downtown spaces, public masturbation and defecation in National Museums (they’d speed off in cars after doing their thing), and the ﬂying of a ﬂeet of six small aircraft — all the core CADA members were aboard, with imminent likelihood of being shot down — to make massive leaﬂet drops of diverse anti-Pinochet poetic thoughts, e.g., “Each individual who works for the expansion of the space of his or her life (even if mental) is an artist.” Their concretist emblem, “No +” (the remainder to be ﬁlled by the populace), dropped as a banner over the Mapoche, the great sewer-river traversing Santiago, riveted the populace and became the enacting cry of the ﬁnal mobilizations that toppled the CIA-installed dictatorship. This is just a footnote, though a microcosmic one, perhaps, to the greater curve / Of the elaboration; it asks no place in it, only insertion hors-texte as the invisible notion of how that day grew / From planisphere to heaven, and what part in it all the “I” had … As I said, I saw Gene Simmons in Vancouver airport. He stuck out his tongue in the famous Kiss poster. They say he drank blood. To get his tongue red enough. As I said, I thought he was a vampire at first -- that subtle post plastic surgery bloat that is also a kind of prettiness. The skin stretched and tucked, finally, somewhere at the back.
[Note: Sources: 1260. JBR; Lyn Hejinian, “from ‘I wrote my name in every one of his books’”, in My Life, as quoted in Wesleyan University Press, “Lyn Hejinian’s My Life”, rec’d 12 Mar 013, approx 7:37 AM PDT; JBR; Nina Power, FB post, 12 Mar 013; JBR; Thomas Droppelman, FB comment, 12 Mar 013; Deborah Poe, FB comments, 12 Mar 013. 1261. Clark Coolidge, various, in 88 Sonnets; Bhanu Kapil, “What happens”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 12 Mar 013; Levi R Bryant, “There’s Only Bricolage”, at Larval Subjects, 12 Mar 013; Khaled Najjar, “Boxes” (tr. Khaled Mattawa), in Poems for the Millennium, Volume Four: The University of California Book of North African Literature (eds. Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour); Simon Reynolds, “Rufige Cru – Menace (1992)”, at BLISSBLOG, 12 Mar 013; Bett, “Brave Spanky wrestling with her fear …”, at bett’s blog, 12 Mar 013; Kent Johnson, “Marjorie Perloff, Avant-Garde Poetics, and The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics”, at Chicago Review 57:3/4; John Ashbery, “Sortes Virgilianae”, epigraph to Samia Ouerdini, “For Tunisia”, in Joris and Tengour; Bhanu Kapil, “To breach: [class summary by bhanu]:”, at Monster, 12 Mar 013]