I Am Likely Already Surrounded
for Tim Yu

I am grateful for the treatment I have received. I am now civilized into a collective sense of warm future. Circling and sniffing each other in ten-second intervals. Through the burning soles of modal value. I also try and use sticks for that as well. I find it’s best to probe without touching. A steady state of loop detail. This may seem trivial, but notice, I am a respected member of the commonwealth. Pen clip in shirt pocket. Agog. Partly because of perception, partly so you would come and lie down. A small unit of meaning. I spread open hands and propagate.

Dirty bombing it in Boston. Will be my first time anywhere near that other coast.

Me too! Me too! First row. Late in the set, Chan waded out into the crowd. Wanted to poke at her as she passed - mostly around the waist and neck. She smells like patchouli, smokes Parliaments, paints her toes pink. A friend grabbed the set list - it's here on a plate.

Regarding the "possibilities for a formal characterization of a truth predicate for a natural language," (ahem) some "difficulties and conundrums" according to Donald Davidson:

- the logical form of counterfactual or subjunctive sentences & sentences about probabilities and causal relations
- the logical role of adverbs and attributive adjectives
- what to say about "mass terms" like fire, water, and snow
- about sentences about belief perception and intention
- about verbs of action that imply purpose
- about sentences with no truth values: imperatives, optatives, interrogatives, etc.

Listening to the Rushmore soundtrack.
Love, Expulsion, Revolution!

Your Service Is Requested
for Tim Yu

Upon visiting the monument, everyone will receive a new chest. They will even give me a sandwich if I walk across the dewy grass.

Do you, like me, also believe in the pursuit of the scientific life? How about equivalence of form constructed from a precise and clear discursive procedure?

There is a pile of sand where your body used to be. Or maybe you don’t have those, if it’s Thursday, but this is no time for nostalgia. The storefronts are overstocked with ash. We are located as a territory that surrounds it. Enter from the alley, turn left and cough.

This will map people onto their sounds. Some or each is consistent situations of different and distinct sensations. For example, lobbing underdevelopment into a village. Me and my old lady, we use their bones as a balm. It stings only for a second.

Watched Godard's Alphaville

Addendum to failed reading report below:
James cradling his son Brighton snoring in his arms.

My Pink-Toothed Dress
for Tim Yu

If I find a nickel mid-sentence and rearrange the house plants so they catch more sun. We spit into each other and out comes intestines. It's running deep under. I arrive at appointment time. Don't tell me it's seasonal allergies. The memory is audible. The secretary said it.

Modeling objects on a tray. Packing heat. The development under. Dear, that's just what I mean. When you'd stay in I'd stay in. "Fitter happier more productive." I enter this room and ask, will you zip me please. I am learning more about place names. Buried out back. Bound, unbound, and spread with a trowel.

In an attempt to stay (become?) sane and smiling, I did not even glance at the front page this morning, and clicked right past my BBC News homepage to arrive here, in the safe confines of inner Blog.

Currently recovering from a dream last night in which I wore an enormous bow-tie. This thing was huge! The ends extended at least two feet past my face on both sides and kind of curved up under it - my face - so I couldn't turn my head at all. No recollection of other dream details - just this gigantic pleated bow tie wrapped around my throat.

Kasey left his copy of The Shaggs' "Philosophy of the World" in my car and I'm listening to that now as I try to report on last night's reading at David Hadbawnik's featuring James Meetze and Sarah Rosenthal. James and Sarah read poems and Sarah also some prose and James an eight page hunk of burning love called Amplifier, a portion of which can be found here.

I'm no good at reading reports. These events, they just make me want to hug everyone. I think Stephanie is with me on this one. In her enthusiasm for L.E.A.R. she suggested poets "warm-up" like theater folks. I'm thinking of the illustrations in Juliana Spahr's _Fuck You-Aloha-I Love You_. Breathing and loosening the voice and limbs and trust exercises and so on. Kasey seemed skeptical, but later as I looked around the reading room, everyone shoeless and bunched up on the hard-wood floor, it felt a lot like kindergarten. In a good way, in the best way possible. But the story-time atmosphere renders me completely useless - words covered in fuzz and smeared with chocolate and smelling of apple juice.

A t A R a k ish Angle
for Tim Yu

I’m here to see about this strap riding up under my ribs. I’m saying, urbane head. Shaky with dogma. Burning down a village. One of. Tore it right through the tear. Unrolled it like a wad on my supple spot.

The point is that he has this terrible scar. 'It feels worse than it looks.' The meaty caverns don't just go away. Incisors. Align. Strokes. Dot. It is just that kind of place.

Even with a trowel. Spreading and dressing. Like a sieve. A great spectacle of power and additional assent. Inability to enunciate. A kind of tautology. A definite article. Perfect bound. Glossary and finality cracked and bearing it.

Watched Lars von Trier's Idioterne.
Read DOGME 95's Vow of Chastity.

Pulling Out the Drywall
for Tim Yu

Nodding in translation I send pink tubing lining sockets of wind. Licking spine in the linen closet, dick in hand, stowed for takeoff.

The other half is bourne. Until she was no longer speaking of underpants. This is an example of an editorial decision. A disease of flowering and Pacific dogwood.

Right to left, the sequence reads: reverse, hostage, arrival. The abbr. is thick as nickel. Several of your markings imply co-referential status. Like a staircase affects a start but little or no room to assemble drapes.

It turns out I am still thinking underpants. Hot potato. Double fold. Once and the same again. We wade toward. A certain pattern of seasonal abandon, flung at nothing in particular.

"2 ways at once. It is in her hair. There and there."

The narcissism of post below.

Someone arrives here by googling
"an objective uncertainty held fast in an appropriation"
which is me quoting Kierkegaard in October,
post PfD couplets.

As if it could have been empty
for Tim Yu

The fog contains a crowd. Half-gasping, no thickness. This is why we call that indexical this. There are many in each. All done up and pretty. Sucking face in polyester. Yellow teeth in empty lockets preserving reference. The smell of fried meat in trashcans on cul-de-sacs. The grinning pink pig. Thinking of it. Containing something vague. Something something makes. My “token supervenience base.” Golden arches preserved in the western latitude of my brain [sic]. "A future heirloom" from a remote location. One type of helmet softening up shrapnel. The landlord asks how the house holds together. The amp near the tv makes the screen green. There are passages with too much inhalation and they take up the horses and tie them.

Call the doctor! I'm all tore up from last night: Sleater-Kinney live. Dig me out hot!

Out with it already, James! (pretty please I mean)

For All Those Who Might Have Been Humiliated
for Tim Yu

I wander into a Taco Bell and order two Baja Chalupas and a large Coke. If you’ll notice the power lines are underground and the canned food is stacked on the right for more much easy access. And he’s all angry and spattered. Do this once a second once. For some systems analysis. Jam one in the bucket. The so-and-so ‘meat people’ in context in the sentence - the old one - the man in the corner drinking champagne. False. No significance at all. Just like us. But thicker.

Watched a man on the bus read poetry over a girl's shoulder, nodding his head and smiling. He caught me staring, seemed embarrassed.

Making out in a well lit office last night with a man named Long Jackson. In a dream, that is. Also, in a kitchen.

Poets Gone Wild came in the mail yesterday. Thanks Cat! It's irresistible. I'm all like Jigga Wha! with serious white [wo]man's overbite.

The eyes the light breaks
for Tim Yu

The birds nesting in the attic of the house between the ceiling and the roof
The cramped house just up from the main road tethered the animal there
The killing of the sheep that took place before dawn in the yard behind
The half-pound of salted cod at the party his self-assured sadness
The synonym which was questioned what was meant ‘thicker’
The apparatus thinking itself is this liberty cost effective
The heterosexual eating eggplant in his nice slacks
The losing memory phenomenon inkling precisely
of the technique of suddenly ending

A Splendid Little War.

Head in a Bag. Cello in the Rubble.

100 pc. Soldier Set Stuft in Foot Locker.

Every Generation Has its Madness.

poem XXX deleted

because it said (I wrote) "fuck me boots," not "war war war"
and last night's dinner conversation was torture, not poetry - (the friend that "hadn't heard" - washing dishes, she asked, "what torture?") - Slow to respond, thought maybe I shouldn't spoil the "fun" - I did. Being so much human failure is our incapacity or salvation? There must be someting salvageable, but hope is not resistance - is "love"?

Of a number of my idiolect giving a meaning to the piece.

I. (of a # of)

"there are tools like a hammer or a screwdriver which can be used by one person; and there are tools like a steamship which require the cooperative activity of a number of persons to use."

II. (my idiolect)

"elm in my idiolect has a different extension from beech in your idiolect"

III. (giving a meaning)

"Let W1 and W2 be two possible worlds in which I exist and in which this glass exists and in which I am giving a meaning explanation by pointing to this glass and saying This is water."

IV. (to the piece)

"water is whatever bears a certain equivalence relation to the piece of liquid referred to as this in the actual world."


(from Hilary Putnam's 1973 APA talk on "Meaning and Reference")

O pantaloon in plural, my simmered aubergine
J A C K in hilarious breeches.

The feeling that whenever I see Stephanie, oranges are involved. (Gather peel section eat). It is a strong feeling but without proof like in a dream.

I find Ernesto in Mexico across time and space with Kristeva also. Yes, the unbearable lightness of blogging persists.

Also belated thanks to Tim for his late night gift-giving: what "a way of knowing nothing."

Happy birthday blog. This week marks one year.

On May Day, Julia Kristeva:

"Poetry has always been able to utter the will of free will, coming back to the memory of words and extracting its sense and time. In periods that we vaguely sense to be in decline or at least in suspension, questioning remains the only possible thought: an indication of life that is simply alive.

Intimacy is not the new prison. The need for connection might establish another politics, some day. Today, psychical life knows that it will only be saved if it gives itself the time and space of revolt: to break off, remember, refashion. From prayer to dialogue, through art and analysis, the capital event is always the great infinitesimal emancipation: to be restarted unceasingly. Without it, all that globalization can do is calculate the growth rate and genetic probabilities.

Truths, including scientific ones, are perhaps illusions, but they have the future ahead of them. In counterpoint to certainties and beliefs, permanent revolt is this putting into question of the self, of everything and nothingness, which clearly no longer has a place.

Nevertheless, if there is still time, we should wager on the future of revolt. As Albert Camus said, ‘I revolt, therefore we are.’ Or rather: I revolt, therefore we are to come.

A luminous and painstaking experience."

from Intimate Revolt