period, date, story

Keep it straight. I'm passing through. Unspoken is bogus. Rereading Hayden White on Michel Foucault on Raymond Roussel. Thinking Roussel Roussel Roussel, and something like When he started throwing illegal drugs into the middle of the street, that should have tipped me off. I rode in a sled down the snow covered hill with a murderer. They did a dirty dirty dance and took all my film.

suddenly, I slipped, the back of my head hitting the curb.

stare

tally, paint, cairn

The tourists stood up to take pictures of the dirty street. They wanted to really capture the moment. I guess he's an optimist, tentatively calling his project Agricola. After all, Tacitus is still widely available.

contact, treasure, helmet

Something about I saw that view of the building on television, next to a collage by Jay Defeo, a study for September Blackberries, a pile of teeth, something about having lost them from gum disease, something about Michael McClure as a Beat poet, something about the avant-garde art world, and I stepped over the puddle and said they don't call it museum for everything, something about someday I'd like to see the bay area, something about John Rawls and Immanuel Kant.

As a mammal I'm very uncomfortable. Potentate.

Clarinet ligature. A trickster in silk pajamas. Apparently, the world fails to be a whole time and time again. She says, flowers in the mirror. Neverending. The purple horse outside the barber shop almost ran over my toes. I tried to look today into it's no longer 1956. A torn cube.

The messages I write travel faster than. I get behind Don Quixote and Moby Dick and Robert Rauschenberg's posters and 1984. I'd like a bowl of soup please. Some crackers. A whistle.

Topography's crack pipe. The detective almost pan tea clover.

transmission

In an attempt to understand the economic policies coming from the oval office during my lifetime (Carter, Reagan, Bush I, Clinton, Bush II), I read three essays by Karl Barth: Evangelische Theologie im 19. Jahrhundert, Die Menschlichkeit Gottes, and Das Geschenk der Freiheit. In English, Evangelical Theology in the 19th Century, The Humanity of God, and The Gift of Freedom. Their policies still appear to be. . .

Walking past Morningside Park down the edge of Central Park. Those that don't like to get their hands dirty. Plotinus was a woman who pulled a bunny out of my hat. Historical preservation was a man who jilted my grandmother. Country. Farm. Silo. Agamemnon. Poetics.

insanity

That same feeling, pushing aside the red and green blackberries, concave sigh spine, the briars, tome out of the hark. Arrowheads and bullets. And before sleep, reading Giorgio Agamben, while watching my wife watch a Red Grooms film of drugs, witches, and fire: "And in a different yet analagous way, today's democratico-capitalist project of eliminating the poor classes through development not only reproduces within itself the people that is excluded but also transforms the entire population of the Third World into bare life. Only a politics that will have learned to take the fundamental biopolitical fracture of the West into account will be able to stop this oscillation and to put an end to the civil war that divides the peoples and the cities of the earth." It's too bad poetry can't pill feeders into dense.

Their best suggestion was that ____all J_____ was the pink and purple kangaroo. False consciousness. Less. Wanderers stare right through me. The drunk from a few days ago called me jam, for instance, yesterday.

Effort. Effort. Effort. Attempt.