I haven’t been able to shake a poem by Eileen Myles, “American Poetry”: “Seamus Heaney, / he sucks too!” In this little book, on my way, put out by Jack Kimball’s Faux Press, class is thoughtless and thoughtful. Impossible to explain from a vantage point and/or I think impossible to explain using my dirty hands as an example. The shirt my grandfather was buried in, for example. A work shirt. But I didn’t write that. I’ve said that a thousand times already.

started reading Lorine Niedecker T & G (The Jargon Society, 1968), Cid Corman nothing doing (New Directions, 1999), Robert Penn Warren Brother to Dragons (Random House, 1953), Anne Tardos Uxudo (Tuumba Press / O Books, 1999), Keith Waldrop Analogies of Escape (Burning Deck, 1997), Robert Creeley Life & Death (New Directions, 1994), David Meltzer No Eyes: Lester Young (Black Sparrow, 2000), Eileen Myles On My Way (Faux Press, 2001)

Screw. Turn it. What do you do when acquaintances who are friends keep dying? What do you do? You can't change your own trajectory. That's impossible. And why do friends feel like they need to tell me when they die? Why is this always the case? I can feel it happening. I don't need details.

Bartered for a ride from the. Airport. Across the river, through the park, the night time air. A library book. Fecundity, picture a thing squirting out babies. There's not a word in Engilsh for. No, no, I'll tell you all about it.

It is safe to say certain routes can no longer be used.

ppppppppror
orororororo;;;;;;;;;;
:house.dbdbdbdbdbb;
ccccccccctoptop
toppoverty.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllll;
;;;;;;;;;;lctsbcdsupplant.....
..........clips,,,cupsttttt
tuuuujunspeakable

Switzerland appears to be as good a place as any to mis place your mental health.

held Stéphane Mallarmé today, and at the mountain pass I realized I'd forgotten all the supplemental material. something about Friedrich von Hardenberg and how the U.S. Federals have been questioning people about political freedoms for a year now, in preparation for an election. dome sting a flout lode streaking 1776.

I could hear them on the other end of the line: my grandmother and her nurse. But they couldn't hear me. And now the clouds have loosened their grip. A good day for a walk maybe.

q u a e e d t , k l h u p o z b ; i s f f f f / dbdbdbe c c e e t a q u w w w w w w hhh o o o . s a a g g g g g g g g g i n c z: extrapolate, grownups . hithithithithithit . wholenote : fffffftpvv.

TNckbdFouthtklmneFKTUVEBbcathicKEA s ooooooWASh to the tOP OF MTN is AFTERLLtodoWATSt,kesPIzzzzzzzzzzzOTOTttPPPPKaRWhINNNN PPPPPIIIwilllalwaysSTOPSTOPSTOPTOSTOP DWhINNEDWINDthe&AbbTtiIiiiiiTRUPP TROOKTROOKTROOKTROOKSLOOPSLOOPSLOOP Si ohohohohohuuuuuuuuuuTRiceTRiceULYHHHHHHH HHHHHH HHHHHHH HHHHH HHHH HSTRAINSTRAINSTRAINSTRAIL ST RULESTRULESTRULESTROOLSTROOL STROOL BBBB BBBBB OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Brook Brook Brook Brook Brook Brook Brook Picky Picky Picky Picky Picky Picky Prick Dick Dick Dick Dick Dix Di xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx OxOxOxOx NYPQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ TO TO TO WH WHWHprade e f i j k parade der der t t r ix e a l t o j a s f a t i ssssssssssssssasssssssssss

mountain, tout

from a letter to my only sibling, Calvin J. Most:

. . .I was glad to hear you had a "wonderful time" at the family reunion. I'm sure you'll make it back to Circleville for the Christmas party in December. You're becoming a pretty good anthropologist, aren't you? Sounds like cousin Mark has been taking his weightlifting to the extreme; it's not an easy task to benchpress 700 pounds. Though I can't believe you're still surprised by all the motorcycle activity, after all these years; isn't it Ohio's state vehicle, kind of like a buckeye I assume, or a bratwurst at a high school football game; or something like "skis are to Switzerland as motorcycles are to Ohio." In relation to the "anxiety," some things are better left unsaid, if you know what I mean. My trip's been smooth so far. I didn't have any problems transferring planes or figuring out the train and buses and so forth. I swung through Saas-Fee last night and walked up a hill, talking about poetics with Michel Deguy; he commented on how dirty the snow looked on the mountainside: "doesn't it look like tags on a wall?" "Maybe it's a million motorcycles," I should have thought. . .

as ever,

John Most

Switzerland: 5 August 2004

America, I could such blather escape gist small place in this anonymous european country and live with poor people. Where are your dirty hands? Show them to me, at this very moment. Where are your scars? Which a tape face? What happens when poetic dissonance, not just poetry itself, is predominantly managed by persons in possession of a clean and shiny status? Will the real Captain Ahab please stand and show hardship in your physiology, your strung out fingertips. Wash wash wash wash wash wash wash.

I was also glad to hear of my family's safe arrival home from our annual reunion in Ohio. My parents to their home, my brother to his. I'm sorry I missed it again. I hope to see you all real soon.

I would like to kill certain things with monumental, halt, puncture. words.

trapezoid