Judges, and parties as well.

Sat on stool. Looked at sticker that said "look here." Saint Nicholas himself took me picture. A passport photo for a little under fourteen dollars at Seventy-Second and Broadway. The camera made me think I was a Victorian gent addicted to opium. Flash booze.

started Potentialities by Giorgio Agamben (Stanford University Press)

The phrase "consumer society" complements the description of the present social order as an "industrial society." Needs are tailored by the mass media to create a public demand for utterly useless commodities, each carefully engineered to deteriorate after a predetermined period of time. The plundering of the human spirit by the marketplace is paralleled by the plundering of the earth by capital. (The liberal identification is a metaphor that neutralizes the social thrust of the ecological crisis.)

--Murray Bookchin "Ecology and Revolutionary Thought"

Precisely, that's nine-tenths of the problem. I'm glad you brought that up.

Chalked bound Waverly Place pestermay, casting George Washington. Demember what I bled, Carl Rakosi's "Atmosphere Anthrax"--"I would rather sing folk songs against injustice / and sound like ash cans in the early morning / or bark like a wolf / from the open doorway of a red-hot freight / than sit like Chopin on my exquisite ass."

How many sects can a porcupine cluck?

Photocopied prayer books. The toppled bookcase, empty, is taupe. Its fourteenth day of sidewalk life. Onan Onan Onan Onan Onan Onan Onan Onan! Hammurapi too.

I call rock bass "red-eye." In "Rock Bass at Yaddo," Carl Rakosi says "backflop."

'I covered for you this time. Just don't let it happen again. What was that? What did you say?' 'I said, but Paul Ricoeur said that interpretation, philosophically understood, is nothing else than an attempt to make estrangement and distanciation productive.'

Succotash! Eternity's not about status, nation, power!

Everyone was there. Catullus even walked the tightrope. It was beautiful.

I hate so much of what I read. It physically makes me sick. I stop thinking and look at all the storebought fire in the determinist camp. Yes, it must be so if you say so. It must be so. Before long, I forget the nausea and start over, expecting much less this time. But I have to say it: "that means nothing, you idiot, if you look at it that way, if you handle it with lacy gloves. Please stop, before I lose my temper."

Ninety rare works acquired by the New York Public Library's Rare Books Division in the nineteen-nineties are currently on display at forty-second and fifth in the Edna Barnes Salomon room. I missed looking at John Keats' Ten Sonnets, Johanna Drucker's Prove Before Laying, Seamus Heaney's Keeping Going, Nathaniel Tarn's The Architextures, Gary Snyder's North Pacific Lands and Waters, and William Bronk's The Act of Devotion. But I did look over Nathaniel Mackey's Song of the Andoumboulou: 18-20 put together by Felicia Rice and Night Lake by Jean Valentine. There were also love poems, The Valentine Elegies, written by Tess Gallagher for her husband Raymond Carver. And Poems for the New Century, a somewhat crass selection of poets under forty. And The Bread of Days, which canvases four hundred years of mexican poetry, with work from eleven poets translated into english by Samuel Beckett--the brief biographical sketches written by Octavio Paz, and the multicolor etches done by Enrique Chagoya. And on and on, from Ovid to Rumi to Horace to Whitman to Denise Levertov to James Merrill. The bright point was all the poetry. The only setback is that the exhibition is image driven--books displayed behind glass. It's impossible to see the words on the page.

start, restart, reread: Ere-Voice by Carl Rakosi, Earliest Worlds by Eleni Sikelianos, meditations in an emergency by Frank O'Hara, Diptych Rome-London by Ezra Pound, Jai-lai for Autocrats by Brian Kim Stefans.

I tis generall yagreed upo nthat som eforce highe rtha nthe loca lauthoritie spu tsomethin gi nth emi, xwher e Icom efro. m Aforc eno tunlik edissatisfactio n.

the riffraff's rabble, the riffraff's rabble, the riffraff's rabble, the riffraff's rabble.

caviller's hardware: a metric wrench and a wingnut.

act felt, think stop. stirrups and saki.

Alice Notley, in a poem called the morbid managers are serving trays of charnel flesh, writes the following: "There are some poets who are surely / technicians, modern technicians / they really love to discuss (endorse) their product / like on the Cyberscope page of Newsweek / I don't want to be part / everyone's idiots. have I said this before / two thousand five hundred trillion times. . ."

The seventh day for the abandoned blue couch. At least by the third day someone adopted the cushions. Then came the rain and the snow. A man on top of a water tower on top of a twenty level building. Turquoise molding. A broken jar of pickles. Squeeze relish. A woman almost spat on me. My trip to Astoria was pleasant. The phone conversation always breaks off because the aprtment is right off the N/W line. You know, you can see the train go by through the window.

circumstances

"Generation, in the human species as well as among irrational species, depends on so many accidents--of occasion, of proper sustenance, etc."

--Immanuel Kant The Critique of Pure Reason

Crime the underweighed crop boy on le bateau livre mit Julia Kristeva!

The manager's name is Marl Surprise. All over the place, all over the place. A reason why you don't like a group of lords.

Other images: pine cones, Pill Dates, Rasmus Kristian Rask, rinds, arbre, armpit hair.

Some other prick has the thunder. You're wasting your time. Marketing is like a cafeteria spoon. I'll eat penny drool kilters and fifteen guinea pails. Shares hallways the work. The work, a color transparency or preservative. An eight skinny finishing veil. Today's journal entry. 03 March 2004.

Desensitivity. Placing words from a day into strokes as "official" and "institutional" and "experiential"? Birds that get mown around. There was the barefoot person, an electrician with union dues to pay, who said "school is for the birds." It all made me think about my friend who shot himself through the head. It must have been louder than a firecracker. Soon calls. The guy on the crosstown bus who found a great deal on cigarettes. Travel. Travel. Travel. Don't laugh at me when you know full well that's the scene where it's physically impossible for me to hit you. I am alone at this point in time, and when the instructor said "various and sundry" for the fortieth time I gave up trying to figure out what was happening.

quid pro quo