Tuesday, July 2, 2013

More Excision--How Exciting!

Blue for the blood which is not blue, for the many, many,
Constitute its magnitude, compassing vortex. Maybe by writing
Relation to painting, to sculpture, I can make such matter materialize
Even as just giving canvas un-ameliorated self-conscious tries
Seems ridiculous: I want to paint what I want, not what I have to
Because I lack sufficient skill to dance through the medium’s declension.What I want for initiating spell may bring
Out necessary skill forth from me but what about next;
Painting and I are not a matter of now, rather protracted past fumbles present.
I am not Picasso, believing I paint, if not think, better than Velasquez.

There is a poet on the internet; his italic seed assassinates.

We should take him off, in order to get into
The spirits of fresher dangers. No, I should
Do this for me. The gun glows
Coolly, like the edge of a Blue
Fin.

Having no
Time is an impossibility,
The painting, oily
Pigment priming poem.

I copied the “crudest scrollwork”
In intricately pounded platinum,
Then tried to figure out what color
Would do for the pinchhit for the platinum 
For the canvas. 

Economies determine the definition and ontology of what happens. This is not fully a matter of money.

The freedom so
Scrambles
Itself with
Conventions. If
This could be
A color
Exactly less than
Approximation
We’d have our
Stand in for platinum.

One of these days, when I’m established enough, I will enumerate my numerous poetic flaws, or tally the tributaries within a few key travesties. I overstate, but elegantly. The √©lan that’s pattern can trump afflicting someone’s episteme at its root: terrifying motile matrix, hamhued loam rocks like ears of bats bump out of.

Let me celebrate my lack of means,
My stark
Body sun can’t help but
Cast silver, elver
Noon, especially at midnight,
Never fails to
Arrest.

Economies, no triage unless one
Counts the most kinetic braiding,
Confers election on
This counterintuitive construction.
I doubt any of these ratchets will get re-sewn into my canzone. I hope some will. I am such a fan of modification. Tension is when there is no revision. Sense is not always sound, which is a truism and rusty nor freshened by me, but where this “plank in reason, broke,” strokes my ego, crawls its sirocco thorax around my right eye, then, via the terrifyingly tender space between and scalding bridge, my left. Naturally, I close them. Naturally, I can still see enough to be all panic.

I wish I’ve got the nerve to sincerely pursue bullshit. This state would make me making visual art tenable, sustainable, even as entering such a baseline seems unattainable, that which I can think but not imagine, imagine but not touch. 

I am in the market looking for
A venue to market my works;
I am so caught up in the market;
I am going hungry in it; I am
Pursuing it like calories, licking,
Licking, as if in prayer there’s
Bone and, more so, marrow.

How could I tell you
Straight when
Right in front
Of my eyes there are
Patterns bubbling from
Superheated stone;
The drag on
Lashes is
Gnarly; there
Are abundant other
Ways to
Put this; let’s
Go get
Embroiled in
Hyperventilated embroidering.
 
I can almost imagine painting in pursuit of a part of an installation-piece which is not strictly painting, not properly so, but there is still an electric scrim keeping me from contact. I write to paint, and pant my preparation slow.

I am preparing for bastardization. I am in favor, assuming consent, which is constantly difficult crucial discernment, of what, the phenomena, the dynamics, the terrible word miscegenation signals. I am comfortable with my homely flings into the worlds of writing. I feel entitled to play language’s games. I feel survivable.

I to the I as it loves a good prunes. Backs are for pats. Where’s yours. If the question’s not clearly, don’t mark it. Persons play musical positionings. What was I supposed to do except say we were moved.

A kind of clouding, clearing where why limpidly lies. I want this document to be twenty pages again. I want these pages to be as good as when there’s no doctor around and none’s majorly the matter but assurance helps. I want hems hemorrhaging lines. I do not want the world to do what I write unless I’ve nothing to do but be incidental. Ethics are important. They are gnarly; they enlarge one’s visages the way thunder perfect surf does.

It was a major interruption, not what can ever be subsumed into seduction.

The way to navigate the matrix is this: adroitly manipulate, matriculate, “perfect gibberish.”

Better than ever is never. Bling should be recognized by Microsoft Works. Vuitton is not either so at-least there’s not duh classism which, too, is born with a red line by the time every letter‘s been breached.

I do not
Know who you
Are.
Who are you.
Just because
You tell me
Does not
Mean I’ll
Know.
Sometime
I would like
To
Do
The mode Scalapino
Did through
Does 
The way schwas
Don’t stop
Echoing only they’re so
Many purlings out.

“Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio”
Cannot, now, be, other than a rhetorical question if it’s being contemporaneously asked, not the performance of a masque, mascara on yet more presence.

My sampling is so wide within its narrowness; freedom is qualified.

Lateral diatomite, depending, profile without predicate.

Did this do to me. Where would ever. Everyplace, obviously.

I smashed up crackers. Rice powder dusted stanchions.
There is no way to predict when this will satisfy. There is only

Easing into satisfaction. Satisfaction gets this. This boredom
Gets why it’s necessary to groove in. Love profiles preterit.
I am not fit to be critic but am better than couture for critiquing his theories, his gags he takes seriously while all sorts of slow fatal choking’s go ignored, or mentioned that they be mocked, turned knicknack not resonant chamber for contrafining faith’s fact.

I made it out; what is it; what is it not; it is the predicate; it is the knot; it is the braid at which reality frays and makes sight legible.

Who cares about reality, it’s the realness of the ethics matter more when necessity makes that narration tenable.

Slow, through, one, and to, but where, plus under, screwy, lovelorn, bubble reflects a horn, cold heat, contrary, capitulates capitol, aptitude, aphasia in an afternoon, followed by silica, flecks from a river used to run through here, Sandra, Seamus, images like action, sights zoning in on sounds, resonant rescues, grounds, missions, saints for satisfaction, self for living through leaves, loopy critters, glittering chitters, chirrs honchoing Cheshire, chemical intuition, intellect and its legislation, barb, carbonate wind carves, chthonic tamping when, when worlds rely on words for their import, opportunity knocks, jimmies gasoline from an obscene amount of Duran Duran arcana gets this car I wouldn’t mind being in all the way to Vegas.

My poems are far more dependent on painting, its existence, than painting, the discipline, is my poem. Well of course, my poem is the object, and the subject surely would object to its take on paintings matter, or perhaps grin agreement if it was witnessed that I’ve stated I am extremely aware what I don’t know how to do. I could slowly, slowly, step by slow step, learn to harness minimums, deploy them in bright activity. I wish, though, if I try painting, to wallow in I am so amateur, not even applying for my membership to Primitive. This wish, as practice, feels, cognitively rolls, through me as unacceptable. Or am I only cheap and lazy, unwilling to procure canvas and paint, brushes and a palate, that I may start an installation. 

In my hands, words can do what paint can’t; with a pat that is no speech I can give the sapping circulation hue, which dew can then dispel if this be a proper epoch, glitter-dirt- and-there-goes-the-skirt five exits west of Peoria.

Eggs are important, even if they’re not always a big deal. There are eggs in the river. No one gives a shit about the river, and gives the river so much shit.

Saturday, June 29, 2013

The bit below was stuff I was going to, somehow, even if in much modified form, incorporate into a canzone I'm working on.  Now, I know for sure I do not wish to have it other than excised from those draft screens where it until now has resided.  For a bit I thought I could parcel it out in between stanzas, and I do like the idea of twining entire unspun poems in between stanzas of another entire poem, but I don't think the lines below are apt for that brightness either.  Given how I'm keen to get rid of these lines, it's not the least bit shocking that I'm eager to keep them too, to deposit them in a marvelous repository, a blog, a brooks, a Gwendolyn!:


Every time any one spoke, an hour or so later, scars appeared; it’s not

Clear whether this indicates dangerous expression, or if each cicatrix

Is a seam, part of the permanent construction which is the present;

Or does the closest one gets to plausible posit in-between, algebraic

X mitotically divides, constructs, compasses what one does, what one

Hopes for and what happens as perceived by third parties; to do anything,

Even stasis, is to act, to be a force; but force precedes and succeeds

Action, hence crop upon crop of dissatisfaction, and I am so fearlessly

A multifoliate confidence, and equally afraid, so stuck in equilibrium,

Stasis, a kind that goes, goes, seamlessly flows, fabricating fault, quake;

Or should I cheer myself on for what I continue to do well enough

And realize in-between is the present in its very link, ongoing algebra,

That there’s always a gap, a rush one can’t seem to solve; but what if

The action destroys the agent! I fear people will reasonably abandon me.

 

Friday, June 28, 2013

I'm interested--among many, many, other?, dynamics--in ethics and crime (whether legally constituted or not) and especially so aesthetics, as where else is the matter materializing statement so close; I'm interested in their braiding.  Below is a declaration, and espionage, of this braid:

Art is not a crime and the person who claims the crime is art is a criminal; that the criminal is an artist is not exceptional. Those who unveil the mess, reveal its regal clarities--ladies, gentlemen, this is not a tease, it’s stripped to the quick--will engage ethics, make and make unto marl the notion parities can be sown from disparities, make and make till the more there’s more the less massive monstrosities are. Crime hides its error, precisely constitutes terror.

Sunday, March 31, 2013

I love the image in the post below!  I love this album!  I am a little confused though, as the album cover--is it the backside?--I love even more I think has Lauper on a street-corner, though this could be faulty memory; mm, I do remember an image where she's in the same outfit, but positioned differently; anyways, everything is happening awesomely.  Does a record cover get any better?  LOL, what a dumb question: the answer is a resounding no! 

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

More On Tropes

I had all these ideas I wanted to write down just like less than a minute ago and I would still write them down if I remembered what they were, what I wish they still are. Now, I’m my usual blank, from which I pull out more blanks, creating seamless chains of anything I doubt anyone has much use for. This is a kind of modesty and this is indisputably egotistical, the way I so thoroughly engage with language in ways few if any will find helpful. I should be optimistic. I should consider the possibility that I may achieve a goodly readership. I should trust that there’s a chance a few readers may find the words I’ve arranged engaging.


OK, now I’m in a mood in which I desire to write prosaic prose, and I’ve told myself I’ve exhausted my point in the prior paragraph. Well, there’s always, this, this going back to a point I make over and over, though hopefully each time with slightly different contours: I distrust the locution “my [this, that, those, any of any].” I don’t believe one can legitimately claim possession, or claim so without stating how one too is possessed. I believe there’s danger to easily believing in ownership. I believe there’s value to trying to build in freedom to what one claims to perceive, so that one may make clear to an interlocutor that you are prepared to be wrong, could currently be wrong.

Like unless it’s questionably legal, I don’t believe anyone besides me should care what I want to write, or rather how I want to write, or rather how marbled to what. Belief is a queer beast. I recognize the “like” opening this paragraph is unnecessary. My counter is this: I believe the “like” engaging because it’s a catalyzing word, a word which encourages followup, which is useful for going on with an essay, which in this instance is more aptly deemed Messay, which is awkward because I consider these sentences me being rather calmly me, almost lucid, almost transparent, almost plain.

Now, it’s time for a “from Blank to [Mark]” to Remark moment. I know I’ve just been pretentious, and more on-point have been being pretentious all along. I’m a fan of pretentious, or at-least a fan of pretentious writing, at-least a fan of pretentious poetry. Yes, pretentious poetry is what I mean. I arrive at value in pretentiousness. For example, the mindmotion Troping engages me. I love the notion substitution serves as an engine, that any dynamic could stand-in, pinchhit, for any other. One reason for this love is this: if dynamics can cross with each other, can engage and re-engage with a diverse field, then ownership becomes less possible. Qualification is necessary. I should have written ownership, in a world viewed as endlessly troping, may become more readily responsibly imagined.

Honestly, and why I’d start such a way, and threaten to diminish totally any credibility for what precedes this bit of this Messaying, is up for grabs and every grasping will somehow point to insensible, I’m not sure what trope means. I remember a friend saying it’s when one thin stands in for another, which seems consonant with substitution, with interchange. But what if he’s not telling any than sadly truncated tail? The term trope, to me, seems always already like a figuration, impossible to pinpoint semantically, but very possible to use in meaningful manners. I could be stupidly celebrating ignorance, or minding my own mind too scrupulously and glossing over the external world as if most significance doesn’t exist there.

My defense, and I’m not sure why I always have to have a defense, I guess it’s a property of prose, is that I’m pretty sure I’m not alone when I state that so much of what, of how, a person knows is based on a network of impressions that are not necessarily retrievable. Am I alone in stating that I usually don’t verify, with some authoritative source, a given concept I’m musing? If I am not, if indeed it is common for knowing to be filtered through memories, glimpses, bursts, and rarely for it to be ordered by complete research, maximal awareness of a Discourse, a mind incapable of perception as other than authoritative accuracy, acuity an impartial spectator can articulate, then there may be relevance to meditating this state. If one attends to the how of knowing, some sense may be intensified as to the what of it.

I understand the necessity of the What-State, but favor How. What strikes me as too much noun. How strikes me as being so much verb. How strikes me as being. Verbs, for me, already connote nouns. Pure action, pure doing, pure capability of doing, the very root of motion, is energy. Energy is a noun. But it’s a body, a matrix of bodies, acting.



Thursday, January 31, 2013

Blue is a trope, blue is as a trope, a displacement, but even in mutation blue, maintaining blue, indicating blue is contingent and historically coherent. I am interested in the notion of there being a state of trope, of world as substitutions. The notion trope seems so mobile, so motile, so adequate a concept for knowing within contingency. My prose is awkward and probably pretentious. The words on this page displace my intention. I am not blue about it. There’s no reason, I agree, love can’t be blue, trope can’t be blue, and if one agrees these words display trope and love and blueness despite fully defensible identifying of clinamens then, well, I don’t know how to go on with the subject, or not without subjecting it to tweaking, which is maybe like peeking at a no-no-yes-yes fact, contingent, of life. Blue is big and my silly I, my occludingly self-deprecatory pose, does a go-go grandiose. I am so caught up in believing my prose is cruddy. But I don’t hone it endlessly as with poetry. I wish my natural style would be neutral, transparent, not transparent like a negligee smoking a joint and petting a pony at 34th and Broadway in Manhattan, or elsewhere if the image makes more sense cast at that location’s homonym.


Is and is as, for me, well duh for me, but it’s important to state limits, or is it just sheer redundant when one’s writing in a mode which could easily be termed speculative, embody the difference between knowing, declaring knowledge, and declaring knowledge contingent, subject to the eruptive energies of the present moment.

I wish more people would read this blog. It makes sense few do; not many are likely to have much love for quasi-lyric quasi argumentative musings, mumblings, meows, pleas, cryings out, callings, and this list must stop: it has become back-patting.

What does my fascination with trope signal? Is this my attempt at theorizing the essential, or is the concept that there’s the essential another trope, and substituting for what, and is substituting standing in or is standing in already oriented around an axis, an edifice, incommensurate contingency.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Just very quickly looked at Google-Images of Odilon Redon paintings: mmmmm, deliciousness for the--well, my at-least--eyes!

Thursday, January 3, 2013


Where You Are There’s My Name
For John Ashbery

Patrons were invited
To guess the time:
The clock was always wrong,
Even when in the split
Of the most exact telling, or as
Precise as time gets in this precinct, policy’s
Fullest fruiting  and envied
By  the trashcan full of flame.

Time was mostly underground,
Slips and splutters girt
By everything but earth.  This took
No getting used to: nobody knew!
No-one clothed their torsos; dew
Gave everyone a full suit of buttons
Which the philanthropists fed to the birds
Like an anorexic man with a muffin.

A little later that dawn,
Like a crocus, time shot through
His path; the nearby fire
Turned the pistils blue, the petals
Pink, and every bench vanished
As if to say there should be no
Place from which to view
Speed and its bones, rags, their cleansing stones.

 

 

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Little note:

I don't really give a shit about aesthetic offense, but I majorly care if I ethically offend; I really don't like the idea of hurting readers/viewers; I'm always, I guess, wondering what constitutes hurts someone versus challenges someone.  Challenging, stimulating, exciting someone--that's goodgood; making someone feel terrible, hurt, degraded, dismissed, well, I'd really rather not.  Another way of phrasing could be this: when is art more a crime than an aesthetic energy; when is it harrassment; when is it, quite literally, indecent; when is it better off not being written or displayed; when is it worth not being explored, pondered?  When is the real, or the forgery of realness, so much more wrong than right?  I'd love to edit an anthology where writers detail ideas/concepts that they would not feel ok pursuing, like probably ever; it's utterly commonplace for writers to state limits should be ignored, or fought against, but I'd be very surprised if even radical writers don't have no-no zones; I'd love to find out what those zones are!  Honestly I don't see how this anthology cld even exist, as it'd involve contributors writing notes regarding what they believe should not be written, and if the words are gonna get gnarly, then the wrong, the illegal, the criminal, would get traced, and I'm pretty sure I don't even want a mere trace: too much space for holding back.   Too, I imagine this sorta anthology wld decapitate the perhaps precious engine of feeling one is a badass and not, in the most macro-sense, far more timid than current discourses suggest.

Maybe this is an answer to the unasked question: Adam, do you view your poems as radical?  My answer is--NO!

I guess I don't even mean radical, as that, discursively, does exist, and it is, in some circles, sanctioned, or will be soon enough.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Here's another poem I wrote (it's too bad it's 15 lines: 15-liners blow donkey balls, tho I can't actually prove giving head to an Ass is bad) a minute ago--like literally; Sonoma Cutrer is my muse I guess, tho I feel that statement is really blah--I wld hate for someone to think I celebrate alchohol as muse:

Fucking-Up In A Tub

Death chuckles.  The living
Sob.  Death bobs like a cork in
The bathtub of a drunk. 

The tub is indifferent.  The finger
Flesh turns
Crenellate.  Once the drunk

Tried to touch a fortification
And fell.  His head
Made a thud; it almost

Cracked: the addiction
Almost jetted like urine
Yellower than sun

And exactly
The sickly luster signals
Dehydration.
I don't think of Lousiville, Ky as conductive of poem-writing, but I just wrote one anways; lastnight I read H Vendler on Plath's "Edge," and suspect it inflects what follows, but I think it actually steals a phrase--the cold fold of the calla bit--from another Plath poem:

Longer Than Life

The cold
Fold of the calla

More calisthenics than
Lilly, light

Beam as
Load, lets an

Imagination
Go, transmutes gone to

Gold, filling
In the incisor, its root

Recalling opera, an aria
Mirroring a hearse, as if death

Hears life not
The longer

Note, Life’s inverse and
Essential to maintaining turns.

 
Carmen Gimenez Smith
PARTS OF AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY:

"I want my problems to be Wallace Stevens, but they’re Anne Sexton."

I love the above statement; I feel like I get it, tho I'm not feeling able to articulate why this is the case; I suspect if I tried to, it'd become clear how much I don't get it. 

Maybe I love it because it suggests just how marvelous Stevens' poems are, that even when one wants to dislike him/them, one can't quite, seemingly, get there.  This tho is conjecture, as Gimenez never says she finds his poems amazingly/wonderful, only that Sexton is, apparently, more problematic for her.

Oh, I now feel the quotation is unclearly written: does Smith mean she wants her problems to be those which are consonate with ones Wallace Stevens had, but instead she's stuck with AS's?  Or does she mean she wishes her gripes n grapples are with Wally, but they're with Sexton's?  My confusion stems from whether one is meant to, implicitly, put a "with" in-between "be" and "Wallace."