Suck chew, pew fork pity is crazy. Another poem for homogenization.

silence

Late night reading, Proust in English translation, Remembrance of Things Past. Volume one. Interrupted by another glance at Poems for the Millennium Vol. 1 (Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris editors). Public library stains. Different than academic stains. Senghor and the house of cards, postmodernism. Is it too late to choose a different classification system?

A previous user had dog-eared Kurt Schwitters' Ur Sonata

& from Carl Rakosi's "A Journey Away"

You were travelling through Delos
when the end came.

read le manifeste negatif

Why scam a plinth to the lie berry?

The success syndrome: a male dog mounting a bitch while the others hang around salivating. Hypothesis: since the market system works to isolate an occasional heralded artist for elite genius status, other artists are rendered redundant.

--Leon Golub "Too Much of What?" 1981

Are there too many poets, producing too many books? More of the same revolutionary acts pandering to this style or that obsession. . .The narrative crop logic.

The handle has been stuck between three and four. There are ten selections.

The current issue of sidereality contains two of my poems.

finished Pieces O' Six Jackson Mac Low

I've planned a long walk down Broadway.

Astronomy, I could have been crazier.

Condensed 20 pages to 6, and so on

the 300th book, Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations

I told my ophthalmologist
to read
Georges Bataille.
He told me
his son
recites Whitman,
that God
was schizophrenic.

    Some agreed with the philosopher Schopenhauer that life is an endless pain with a painful end, and that life is a tragicomedy played over and over again with only slight changes in costume and scenery. Others cried out with Shakespeare's Macbeth that life "is a tale / Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, / Signifying nothing." But even in the inevitable moments when all seems hopeless, men know that without hope they cannot really live, and in agonizing desperation they cry for the bread of hope.

--Strength to Love Martin Luther King, Jr.

Robert Wilson's version of Woyzeck has been popping up since I saw it performed at BAM. A knife here, some bacteria there.

finished Day Book of a Virtual Poet Robert Creeley

finished Elegiac Feelings American Gregory Corso

I read the final Corso poem [Immutable Moods] on the subway early Sunday morning. All about cigarette machines and the doctrine of metempsychosis.

to ride a subway through / a depth of purple glass

the 120th book that I pulled down: The Sheltering Sky

finger of the East River

Found an obituary and a postcard from Venice.

Uptown cranes were disrupted (express only). From 42nd to Lincoln Center I stared at a middle class frozen dinner. Lie wasted faulty. How the cad bleats philosophy works.

I was walking toward fifth avenue with a list in my head. It was appropriate to build up to a lengthy prose entry, which may or may not appear at a later date, which may or may not underscore the inevitability of sacrificing itself to some effect--this one here or that one there. Kill the body for effect, kill the body for effect (cf. bad straits).

The scaffolding was also gone when I returned. Three or four months of structure. Tread botch dangerous preen public hoop and holler's bothersome.

Kit so one ever read pen enth volume this unimportant. Deception done freckle kit shelf.

A man was tired next to Bryant. 3rd floor of public services building.

started Elegiac Feelings American Gregory Corso

started Day Book of a Virtual Poet Robert Creeley

started Pieces O' Six Jackson Mac Low

a woman who lived near Puget Sound
young breast of lamb
1896 and 1904 editions
lemon sherbet

And if life be, as it surely is, a problem to me, I am no less a problem to life. People must adopt some attitude towards me, and so pass judgement both on themselves and me. I need not say I am not talking of particular individuals. The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me

--Oscar Wilde De Profundis

February Ten, Seven Post Meridiem

Casper Jones Cafe
440 Bergen Street
Brooklyn, NY

kari edwards
Charles Bernstein

finished Les Belles Âmes by Lydie Salvayre

from 2001. Had more people showed up. Yes, there's sentience. And the cheese between my teeth as Gordimer walked right in front of me. Had I said something--stripe hive dew pain, stripe hive dew pain.

Miff pry ay, at bran dome, dance upon the fetish of Barthes on Poe: nous allons découper le texte je propose à notre étude en segments contigus et en général très courts. . .

OTC cleared the pine dust. Set attempts in bran dome, place them on teams.

The smell of the courtyard on my blood skein. Peo penned a poem chair.

presume

started L'aventure sémiologique by Roland Barthes

started Les Belles Âmes by Lydie Salvayre

I missed one person by thirty minutes. Another person by ten minutes. My own decision missed another person. My one sibling, my two parents. Driving down the road. There is no sake. Five times tooked realize for lorry. I stove creek facts. Many steep cracks. Automatic weapons before Lincoln Tunnel, white lights on Broadway shrubbery. Far chess heckling. And a new condominium for sale office on the street.

One day paranoia. One day. One day, lost again. Compleatly loast again.

Finally back in New York City after an extended trip to rural Virginia.

Off until Tuesday January 6, 2003