I remember (je me souviens) Bonnie Kramer, whose downstairs neighbor used to come out of his room at night when she returned home and ask her if she would will her eyes to the Eye Bank … the crystal poet closes his eyes the crystal poet opens his eyes / the crystal poet talks to the desert’s park / he looks at a [woman] cutting / sublimely celestial vegetables / […] / he sits on a harbor chair in extreme luxury / like a street vendor / he is perfect like the pope in Rome gone broke / you are all idiots / […] / so am I / […] / The right thickness is the right temperature, exactly 219 degrees. There’s no far like so far. Over the past decade, I’ve received so many emails from my mother that start with, “Dear Jenny, How r u? We are all find.” Are you still on lockdown, Jenny? After an endless projection of a lo-fi film the less of which said the better (save that J. Hardingham’s Klaus Kinski is a fine Klaus Kinski), interval spillage spilled over into the opening drones of one O. Evans, down with the flu but freshly haircut & armed w/didgeridoo, kaoss pad & assorted other implements electronic & acoustic, and an in-progress set of homophonic translations of the work of Henri Michaux, said by their translator to concern the relation between drugs and the state. Dear Herodotus, maybe you’re right about that river thing, but I do know the little river islands with nobody but trees on them were all there and not there, that Japanese mu thing. Even though there’s the irony. Sort of like that Smiths song ... “If a double decker bus …” But I do believe it thinks. If we think, it thinks. “I can imagine every poet associated with The Grand Piano, plus quite a few others, having written Instead of ant wort I saw brat guts. Which is to say that I can envision a place in the writing of each in which this sentence becomes necessary. In every instance, however, it would mean something quite different. Those words in a poem by Ron Padgett would carry a different weight than they would in a work by Linh Dinh, Elizabeth Willis, or Bruce Andrews. What those differing meanings might be is what concerns me most.” But I find it very weird watching the video, because while this was going on I was being beaten up by police on the other side of the stage. This felt sense at seeing the rose extends, because light in the DNA of my cells receives light frequencies. The entire rose, petals in moving air, records as a sphere, so when I recall the emotion, I touch dimensionality. Then experience is revelation, because plants and people have in their cells particles of light that can become coherent, that radiate out physically and also with the creativity of metaphor, as in a beam of light holographically, i.e., by intuition, in which I inhale the perfume of the rose, then try to separate what is scent, sense, and what you call memory, what is emotion, where in a dialogue like touching is it so vibratory and so absorbent of my attention and longing, with impressions like fingerprints all over. I’m saying physical perception is the data of my embodiment, whereas for the rose, scarlet itself is matter.
god is useless.
The cop had my face mashed into the ground, and his whole weight on the back of my neck.
[Note: Sources: Michael Joseph, FB comment, 18 Mar 013 (je me souviens = a bit of JBR tribute to Georges Perec’s tribute to Joe Brainard); Kitasono Katue, “PORTRAIT OF A MOONLIT NIGHT AND A POET’S TALE” (tr. John Solt), as quoted in Anny Ballardini, “oceans beyond monotonous space: selected poems of Kitasono Katue”, at Big Bridge; JBR; Anne Gorrick, FB comment, 18 Mar 013; Louis Cabri “from The Alan Davies Project (Sapswirls)”, at Ixnay 3; Jenny Zhang, as quoted in “Poet of the Week: Jenny Zhang”, at Brooklyn Poets, 18 May 013; JBR (referring to the recent po-po clamp on Brooklyn streets); David Grundy, “Starcrusher Night: Cambridge, 09.03.13”, at Streams of Expression, 15 Mar 013; William Keckler, “Dear Herodotus”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 18 Mar 013; Ron Silliman, The Grand Piano 5, as quoted in Eileen Tabios, “On ron Silliman’s … Equipoise (?)”, at The Blind Chatelaine’s Keys, 18 Mar 013; JBR; Bethan Jones, “‘I will continue to say Cameron has blood on his hands’ … the case of Bethan Jones”, at Defend the Right to Protest, 18 Mar 013; Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, “Hello, The Roses”, at BOMB 117; Küçük İskender, as quoted in Jared Schickling, “Some Participation Reading EDA: An Anthology of Contemporary Turkish Poetry, edited and mostly translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat”, in The Paranoid Reader: 2006-2012]