Saturday, March 04, 2006

some initial paragraphs

this is the start of something. a lot of beginnings on this blog, I hope.

Together we’re a typical man on a Sunday jaunt, even though separately or in France we’re hardly male and so disparate as to make even representation by analogy highly unlikely. This has little to do with our so-called genitals, which further distinguishes it from us. One of us wanted to do something useful just when the other was a sketch of possibilities, in need of suspension while the delicate connections were made. Practice, in any case, carved these borders with its doubled folds, and the result of us was the rehearsal of one thing accompanied by the re-enactment of something entirely else.

Who can tell what the deal is with “jaunt?” It doesn’t carry the desired sense of “away-ness.” With us it was like some “absence-only” program, carried on in stead of lunch—an anorexia of time; that’s the only way to say it. By which I mean “an anorexia of time.” Anyway, start with a decoy and the story can hide for awhile, maybe in the reader. As we like to uncover.

A typical response to the theater is “___________.” Typicality is a feature of most others. But not us, entering into activities in ignorance of what was said between us—utterly without influence. That’s because nakedness hides the typical mode of performing being-with-others. On stage, this became part of the new society.

Friday, March 03, 2006


hey, fuck that!

(just honing my craft)

Wednesday, March 01, 2006


Everything in this will get developed further, but I felt it was interesting enough as a start.

We were designed for you by “the (s)elf.”
Who thought there must be a poem somewhere
in the little blob. Who, when you read that
as you paused in mid-cross and asked,
“Are you writing about me?,”
had to say “yes,” to hide the habit.

Streams of what streamed in to the offshore station

That shadowed organ by the tree leg here again.

Again as in memory,
a room the opposite of its acts. Our long
ones mean to whisper.

This was meant to be possible—we’ll see.

Canvassing the next.
Guarded to elapse.

salt seeks

rapid terminations
for lick, I mean luck

spent a nub of sun
in the mud this day


the people in the vilage
or, if you insist,

villagers disrobe
at profit

while where you come from
the poses have names

Abachi, Kuzi, as if from the East,
as if to hang from the ceiling

scattered time


equal to their names: say Sadiq


The head came off this morning.


The words are freezing in the hallway
repeat, repeat
The ones that I had meant to hear
repeat, repeat
The smell of mown grass
always mixed with gasoline

Yet the methods seem to have made some areas safer
repeat, repeat
There are times of day when the sea looks o.k.
repeat, repeat
We build on that and reduce a fiction
to a system of localized spinelessness.

Only those snails
that represent the many dead.
At this point,
an intervention into the way things were going
was abandoned.