A dream:
A large group sitting on a lawn somewhere. Patricia asked what we would do if a doc was missing a full stop on p12. I said we’re text creators not catalogers like her so we’d simply add the full stop. It was clear she’d prefer leave as-is and add a bibliographic note. I’d been talking to Barb, to whom I’d just given 3 quarters and 3 dimes as change for a dollar. She had to – call? – Joel and Kyle (their son, of whom I’d never heard til that instant, tho somehow I knew he was about 8). Next thing I knew we (Barb, – a guy (not Joel, dunno who), whom she was “with” – and I) were entering some warehouse/barnlike structure in the desert. Inside the structure a half dozen people dressed like kids are supposed to dress when they climb up into attics and open an old clothes chest. Oversize coats (one was lime green), feather boas, etc. 60s-esque costumes. Later in the dream only one woman (the one in the lime green coat and grey boa) was still dressed up. One of the people was Jacques Lacan. He had longish thick curly brownish soft-jewfro hair. He said something I can’t recall. A pronouncement. Then we were walking again, back through the desert. At some point Lacan had used his famous knots to tie Barb and her guy together, side by side, hands bound behind their backs. I didn’t see him do it. I was behind them. Where I could pay special attention to the knots. I knew they were his knots, and that they were extremely well done. One of L’s acolytes, a woman, noted that Barb had pissed herself. The inside thigh side of her left pants leg was soaked. The pants were khakis. The acolyte sounded concerned, as in “this is not right.” Later we were led back inside the structure to lie on a giant couch or bed. I was up towards the head, Barb and ? down by the foot. L began examining Barb’s mouth. To his acolytes: “Note her tongue. It’s smooth. That’s because women have no tongues.” He moved on to the guy’s: “Men, of course, have bumps on their tongues.” “Bumps” meant one large lump, about halfway back. I said, “You just want to fuck her.” He laughed and said, “Correct.” We were walking again. The acolytes grabbed L by the arms and held them behind his back. They said head for the road. We’d be able to catch a bus. All I saw was a dirt track. “How often does it run?” I asked. Someone: “It only comes when summoned.” One of the women turned to a man, who wore a wrinkled desert-dirty yet still nice button-down shirt with vertical inch-wide brown and black stripes. He reminded me of Eric Delko from CSI Miami. She told him to summon the bus.
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dreams about /
on: crazy, africa,
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thanks, fire, sorry,
remember,
rose, work,
sleep, sea, dark,
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“Sun, don't go!” I was awake
at last. “No, go I must, they're calling
me.”
“Who are they?”
Rising he said “Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too.” Darkly he rose, and then I slept.
For
I’ve learned
that relations are
a
small twig
in the blizzard,
and
that my
terror is decayed
with
age, tho
the porcelain bayonet
of
noon scrape
the face of
a
man who
has forgotten why
he
started to
spit. A shivering
bundle
of shredded
starlight sniffs the
dust
of late-
night TV, which
provides
the only
solace. Come and
expend
a loud
distance, my blessed
hairy,
sound ticks
out like a
sprung.
I do not speak here of that river (Lethe)
you read to be an allusion
to ancient myth and poetry,
though it to belongs.
heart
and lungs.
a miniature world
talks itself into being. …
Meaninglessness
was simply
a mood. IT
SHOULD
BE THERE
IN YOUR LIFE
so
that in
your best creative
moments
you can
spiffle through it
for
materials useful
to your writing.
set
sysCursor to
4. open parenthesis
uh
comma Buying
a newspaper at
a
local deli:
I’m at the
front
counter when
I hear a
loud
though muffled
noise, something between
a
groan and
a cry, from
a
man standing
half inside, half
outside
the open
door. It’s an
exclamation
but not
of any recognizable
word
with recognizable
meanings. My head
automatically
swivels to
follow the direction
of
his gaze,
but I can’t
make
out what
he’s looking at.
He’s
got his
hand to his
mouth,
covering it.
I say, “What
is
it?” Wordlessly
again, he points.
I
Walk closer
to him and
see
he is
looking at a
piece
of shit
on the sidewalk.
There’s
a roach
on this turd,
and
the roach
is eating it.
[The
man leaves]
After he has
vanished
around the
corner, I realize
I
am standing
in the place
he
just left,
with my hand
positioned
over my
mouth … as if
I
had followed
or copied his
exact
gesture in
order to take
his
place, continue
a series …
Now I see no sin in saying, bou, bou,
bou, bou, bou, a hundred times together ;
nor is there any turpitude in pronouncing
the syllable ger, ger, ger, ger, ger, were
it from our matins to our vespers : There-
fore, my dear daughter, continued the
abbess of Andoüillets -- I will say bou,
and thou shalt say ger ; and then alter-
nately, as there is no more sin in fou than
in bou -- Thou shalt say fou -- and I will
come in (like fa, sol, la, re, mi, ut, at
our complines) with ter. And accord-
ingly the abbess, giving the pitch note,
set off thus :
Abbess, Bou - - bou - - bou - -
}
Margarita, ---- ger, - - ger, - - ger
Margarita, Fou - - fou - - fou - -
}
Abbess, ---- ter, - - ter, - - ter.
The two mules acknowledged the notes
by a mutual lash of their tails ; but it
went no further. ---- 'Twill answer by an'
by, said the novice.
Abbess, Bou- bou- bou- bou- bou- bou-
}
Margarita, ---- ger, ger, ger, ger, ger, ger.
Quicker still, cried Margarita.
Fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou.
Quicker still, cried Margarita.
Bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou.
Quicker still -- God preserve me! said
the abbess -- They do not understand us,
cried Margarita -- But the Devil does,
said the abbess of Andoüillets.
Conséquemment
en suivant
la vue absent
which
has ceased
to appear/ already
it
has been
has been / has
been
without ever
occurring to itself
that
it should
remember. And was
long
haunted, diligently
by confusion of
habit
and home,
time and the
Western
world. Heart,
be still, amazedly.
.
A full
stop appears from
nowhere,
could be
a cut n
paste
hack job
. Four bronze
angels
stand at
the vestibule. They
are
the ermeneuti
of the interior
and
at the
same time its
custodians.
Changing themselves
into knives or
rocks.
The exquisite
sound of coursing
rivers
into forests
of parrots. Handmade.
Locked.
Rubbed raw
by their lizard
tongues.
So very
every particle. Burnt
cluster
mud. Skittish
prophecy – My heart’s
pounding
a bit.
Machine gun fire.
Focal
tendon acrostic
moan. Things are
scarier
than the
rear-view
redundancy under sun
lamp.
Mistrial. [name
of major historical
figure]
ONE NIGHT, MR. S THE NEXT NIGHT
HAD A DREAM IN MR. S. DREAMED OF
WHICH RENÉ THE NARROW STREETS
MAGRITTE AND OF DELFT, CIRCA 1669.
WALKER EVANS PLAYED JAN VERMEER
CROQUET ON A CAREENED INTO HIM
FROZEN POND. WHILE ROUNDING A
UPON HITTING THE CORNER AND
HOME STAKE AT THE APOLOGIZED,
LAST WICKET, MAGRITTE SAYING
WHISPERED, “I’m in a rush to spread
“It’s all about the green apple.” some red!”
So
it’s a
spirit that keeps
me
from breaking
into pieces. Because
I
am everywhere
at this hour
there’s
something personal
about it. Cannot
possibly.
It has.
(Thought is a
form
of sculpture)
The extraordinary proliferation
of
names for
the lion is
symptomatic
of the
animal’s emotional sway
over
all who
encounter it: “The
Yowler”
“Whose Face
is Huge and
Wears
A Hideous
Expression” Morton Feldman:
Let’s
take some
drugs & drive
around.
The best
poems are written
by
the moon
during daylight and
thus
become invisible
to everyone in
a
colorless language
of the feelings
we’re
not yet
having. It’s Martha
Reeves’s
voice
that makes
everything true. “The
irony?
Richard Kimble
is innocent.” But
then
there’s a
train wreck – “Fate,”
goes
the voice.
Kimble was a
vector.
The geese
would dance again.
[Note: Sources: a dream of Monday, 30 Mar 09, a little before 4 a.m;. stuff appended to Frank O’Hara, “A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island”, and O’Hara’s poem, as found at Poem Hunter.com. From here my source is the set of poem-excerpts set off by indents found in the texts which make up Telling It Slant: Avant-Garde Poetics of the 1990s (eds. Mark Wallace and Steven Marks). I use bits from all of them, unless there is more than a handful in any one text. If the same poem is excerpted twice, I don’t hit it twice. And I do sample the occasional bit of the surrounding text. Charles Bernstein, “Virtual Reality”, in Jefferson Hansen, “Anarchism and Culture”; Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, “Ghosts”, The Heat Bird, John Yau, “Shanghai Shenanigans”, “Genghis Chan, Private Eye”, Brian Kim Stefans, text, Tao Lin, Lotion Bullwhip Giraffe, in Stefans’ “Remote Parsee: An Alternative Grammar of Asian North American Poetry”; Robert Duncan, “The Quotidian”, “After a Long Illness”, Charles Borkhuis, “Inside Language”, Joseph Donahue, “Desire”, in Leonard Schwartz, “A Flicker at the Edge of Things: Some Thoughts on Lyric Poetry”; Edward Sanders, “Creativity and the Fully Developed Bard”, in Kristin Prevallet, “Investigating the Procedure: Poetry and the Source”; a bit of script I mistook for a poem, in Christopher Funkhouser, “A cyber-Editor’s statement”; Mark Nakada, “Dreaming Okinawa”, in Jeff Derksen, “Unrecognizable Texts: From Multicultural fo Antisystematic Writing”; Sianne Ngai, text, Lawrence Sterne, Tristram Shandy, in Ngai’s “Raw Matter: A Poetics of Disgust”; Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Dictee, Rosmarie Waldrop, A Key Into the Language of America, in Caroline Bergvall, “Writing at the Crossroads of Language”; Lorine Niedecker, “When Ecstasy is Inconvenient”, in Elizabeth Willis, “The Arena in the Garden: Some Thoughts on the Late Lyric”; Massimo Cacciari, Posthumous People: Vienna at the Turning Point (tr. Rodger Friedman) (not Wallace/Marks); Henri Michaux, “Tomorrow”, Joseph Guglielmi, “Ends of Lines”, Clark Coolidge, “Melencolia X”, Michael Palmer, “Sun”, Bob Perelman, “To the Future”, in Charles Borkhuis, “Writing from Inside Language: Late Surrealism and Textual Poetry in France and the United States”; I skipped Bill Luoma’s text because I hit it in FCF 58; Lisa Jarnot, “TWO”, Rod Smith, “Sieff”, Jennifer Moxley, “13”, Juliana Spahr, “Responding”, in Sherry Brennan, “make shift”; Walter Thomas, WHAT HAPPENED TO MR. S (not Wallace/Marks); Fanny Howe, “13:13”, Andrew Levy, text, Steve Benson, untitled improv, fall 1994, Ear Inn, in Levy’s “An Indispensable Coefficient of Esthetic Order”; Dodie Bellamy, “Savage Magic”, “Sexspace”, in Academonia (not Wallace/Marks); al-Husayn ibn Ahmad ibn Khalawayh, Names of the Lion (tr. David Larsen) (not Wallace/Marks); Rod Smith, “A Tract”; Tan Lin, “ambient stylistics”; C S Giscombe, “Fugitive”]