Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Litlove: Camus & Sartre... knowing what matters


Sunday, February 20, 2011

Corporeal Poetry: Toward a Poetics of DOING IN THE BODY!

"Deleuze and Guattari argue that the function of language is not to represent or refer, but to performatively enact what they call “incorporeal transformations [...] They are not interested in how language represents, but in what language does. This performative approach to the world is sorely lacking in theory, though it is gaining more and more of a voice.”.
Two Types of Assemblages on Larval Subjects

Next, to move past the incorporeal.  Here's to CORPOREAL POETRY!

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

The Peaceable Kingdom

My story now up on
Connotation Press

The Sanguine Root

A wonderful new web page: photos and journal, a journey of exploration. Local ecology, awareness of place and time, terroir. Begin in your own yard, the park at the end of the block, the world. The Sanguine Root. Please Share!

The Sanguine Root
Please Share!

Monday, February 14, 2011

Journal Entry: Sunday, Feb. 13, 2011

Somewhat -- should say -- considerably better today. A day to recover.

Death is a strangely natural muse. is it true that the true subject of every poem ... is Death?

Are my symptoms increasingly consistent with asthma because i have grown to think of them more consistently as being asthma?

It strikes me that asthma would be a condition particularly susceptible to psychosomatic influence.

I cough & enter a kind of momentary alterd state -- not quite syncope -- still conscious -- but something close to a hypnogogic halucination -- but only of time -- of exit & entering & returning to this waking world, which in turn, on each occasion, seems less real & more distant.

In an insane world one has to be crazy to be sane. But everything depends on the kind of craziness... and there is no free choice. It happens... in the form you deserve.

What else can we mean by 'karma?"

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Amusing Death

I was told I would meet Death in the B2 café but I seem to have been misled. I am not Death, he told me, Death refuses revelation. There is none who will see Death, or ever will. Then who, I asked, are you? I am his spectre, he said, and I prefer my coffee black. Are you not interested in why you have been summoned? I am, I said—I was about to ask why she (he… she…seemed to shift genders effortlessly) … why his speech sounded so archaic… but realized this might sound foolish. To be your muse, she said... not me, I mean... but Death. Do you know why? Because of what I realized while snuffing albuteral and Atrovent till dawn at the hospital Friday night? Yes, he said. That the subject of every poem… Yes, Death said… or his spectre, now wearing a white shift, tiara and heels, as though he had a change of mind half way to the next sex)... is Death. Yes. & We know, he said... we know that you love us. That you always have... I blushed.  ...& out of this love will come poems to the end of your days. Remember, she said… how in your youth, when you were in love, the poems would come almost without effort. This is true, I said, but they were all such shitty poems. Because you did not know. You had not yet realized.... You always thought it was this girl or that—when all along, he said. When all along… All along... it was you? And Death smiled… the most beautiful smile I have ever seen… 
Tripping from lack of sleep and (legal) pharms has its advantages... the perpetual interference, while not disappearing, loses much of its at the core of our fear and despair...and the joy of indifference to both.


Monday, February 7, 2011

Did you ever stop to think... it’s always the disasters the wars & the spoiled poisonous lands & the prisoners in their cells & the tyrants on their thrones- how we depend on them for meaning--for relief from boredom, the interminable beauty of spring & sexual love & endless poems of blossoms & spangled birds & quiet waters whispering in only the faintest quietest voices to remind us of death?