Last night I saw Antonin Artaud being chased around Bryant Park. And some kid from New Orleans pretending to be Marlon Brando, God rest his soul. Not only did this kid want to fight, but he firmly believed that Tennessee Williams was in a giant bourbon ice cube near Los Alamos. As Artaud climbed the lamp post, to avoid his captors, I thought of translators groping for definitions, seriously: "The human face / is an empty power, a / field of death."

Today the street prophet said, "People forget God, God never forget." Then he cleared the curds from his throat.

(Re)started: Jerome Rothenberg The Lorca Variations and That Dada Strain, Jena Osman The Character, Barbara Guest Miniatures and Other Poems and The Confetti Trees, Forrest Gander Lynchburg, Michael Palmer Without Music and The Promises of Glass and At Passages, Charles Olson The Maximus Poems.

reference

caption

If you're in New York City during the next week or two, check out the following located here: 6 site-specific original short plays commissioned by Sanctuary and presented at six different locations throughout the boroughs, one location each night, all six plays each night (one play is the "host" and the others are "guests") and free to the public. Some of NY’s most visionary playwrights experiment with the context-shifts that location inspires. Each night will be utterly one of a kind. And once the 6 nights are over, they’re gone. Sept 23, 24,25, 29, 30, Oct 1. The six plays:

Sheila Callaghan — Soak
Kia Corthron — Dual
Lisa D'Amour — Stanley (2004)
Jason Grote — The Island of Never Giving Way on Your Desire
Sung Rno — Weather
Caridad Svich — A Short Time After

from a letter to Calvin J. Most

. . .New York is the same, it’s been cloudy pretty much all week, in the low seventies but humid. I’ve only been to one poetry reading in the past few months. Now that Kaleb’s fully settled in Nashville, I’ll probably go less and less. I still have such a hard time keeping appointments. Poetry readings are for and not for the long haul aspect of poetry. The inordinate amount of time it takes for a thought to spread. They’re also for and not for interconnections. I introduced myself to Kerri Sonnenberg who edits a literary journal in Chicago, and I heard Brenda Iijima, Rodrigo Toscano, E. Tracy Grinnell, and some others read. I’m not sure how to translate the experience into your terminology, I'm not sure if you can even ground these names. Anyway, to answer your other question, the journal is still alive. The print date for call: review two was pushed back three months because of my trip abroad. I think I already filled you in on those details. So expect to see it in three weeks or so.. . .Oh yeah, thanks for putting me in touch with Matt, and enjoy your trip to Taipei. I might be heading to Connecticut soon for a short visit. I’ll keep you posted.

best--

John

Foibles. Delicious. A recycling of moments when they should be left to rot, forgotten.

I read a line by Creeley, "I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind," and witness myself called to the front of the class. My glasses break. I pick up the pieces and cut my finger. The rest of the day is fuzzy. Break. After almost a month abroad, I've been home for almost as long. I think, on a bus, about my motion sickness, nausea, when we stopped in the town where Adorno died. I think of my Aunt who lived in an old schoolhouse. I think how I cut my lip shaving before a funeral.

walkie-talkie

intention

ashtray

A packet of pills