Wednesday, September 28, 2011

so i think
my writings
could fill a trunk
i am set  to sail soon

saturn is the planet
the most beautiful
the rings are hope
a kind of ordered world
i left or look for
where all of us
move among the lanes
around a ring
you will  choose
to  leave the body
into digital eternity
in silicone programs
growing to eat
or be eaten
or are we
consuming everything
because its time for harvest



















Monday, September 26, 2011

Sunday, September 25, 2011

the garden years
that will never come back
query the indian continentals
american dumbass
misguided foam on a wave
that without a cultural monarchy
crashed exponentially outward
which infinitely growing debt
could not stand behind
or outpace
devaluating data
which while slow with the monkeys
found the new primates
reengineering earth
as a machine of thought
without heart
 
 
 
in three hours
a backdrop of sod
mutt buffet or
living carpet
so i bought all this
weed killing fertilizer
and the dogs got sick

when leaves
stopped moving

grass in the 80s







we laid down
nested in it
light strings
new love
without
dollars or data
or other entities
in the soft rain
from lemon clouds
inside the sphere
when  we were young
and  america
could be good
now
espressoing
the mahogany and marble
your shadow numbers
seep into sight
a line of blood
from prior version(s)
and parents decisions
into yours














On our way home from mass we would often meet M. Legrandin, who, detained in Paris by his professional duties as an engineer, could only (except in the regular holiday seasons) visit his home at Combray between Saturday evenings and Monday mornings.
He was one of that class of men who, apart from a scientific career in which they may well have proved brilliantly successful, have acquired an entirely different kind of culture, literary or artistic, of which they make no use in the specialised work of their profession, but by which their conversation profits. More 'literary' than many 'men of letters', endowed with a greater ease in execution than many painters, they imagine that the life they are obliged to lead is not that for which they are really fitted, and they bring to their regular occupations either a fantastic indifference or a sustained and lofty application, scornful, bitter, and conscientious.
Tall, with a good figure, a fine, thoughtful face, drooping fair moustaches, a look of disillusionment in his blue eyes, an almost exaggerated refinement of courtesy; a talker such as we had never heard; he was in the sight of my family, who never ceased to quote him as an example, the very pattern of a gentleman, who took life in the noblest and most delicate manner.
My grandmother alone found fault with him for speaking a little too well, a little too much like a book, for not using a vocabulary as natural as his loosely knotted Lavallière neckties, his short, straight, almost schoolboyish coat. She was astonished, too, at the furious invective which he was always launching at the aristocracy, at fashionable life, and 'snobbishness'--"undoubtedly," he would say, "the sin of which Saint Paul is thinking when he speaks of the sin for which there is no forgiveness."
"Well met, my friends!" he would say as he came towards us. "You are lucky to spend so much time here; to-morrow I have to go back to Paris, to squeeze back into my niche. "Oh, I admit," he went on, with his own peculiar smile, gently ironical, disillusioned and vague, "I have every useless thing in the world in my house there. The only thing wanting is the necessary thing, a great patch of open sky like this.
Always try to keep a patch of sky above your life, little boy," he added, turning to me.   "You have a soul in you of rare quality, an artist's nature;
never let it starve for lack of what it needs."

      marcel




Monday, September 19, 2011

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

















And I begin again to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof of its existence, but only the sense that it was a happy, that it was a real state in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished.
I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I find again the same state, illumined by no fresh light.
I compel my mind to make one further effort, to follow and recapture once again the fleeting sensation.   And that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next room.
And then, feeling that my mind is growing fatigued without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy that distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest and refresh itself before the supreme attempt.   And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it.
I place in position before my mind's eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly;  I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.
Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being?
I cannot tell. Now that I feel nothing, it has stopped, has perhaps gone down again into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise?
Ten times over I must essay the task,  must lean down over the abyss.
                                                      *proust















BEST VIDEO OF THE YEAR!!!










Sunday, September 11, 2011


pulled back the covers
opened the wake
he left it all
a complete dance
as his septum
falls into darkness
james is loving me
laughing as no christ ever could
at our predicament
singing like frank
of windy summers




























Saturday, September 10, 2011


you can't trust the filtering
work to shut it off
my hemi buddy
and the mechanics
underneath

the older synaesthetic
from my  mother
in dream to the West
cross the atlantic
onward to the pacific
rewinding in the caribbean

two of us
who go to sleep at night
one you can never trust completely
yet  you know not which
you are

a deliberated strategy
in reply to the selling










Thursday, September 8, 2011

the weight of the history
and detail in Nature
is helping to crush the ego
inside me to make it
malleable

the penguin  snapped his heels
and said in a song
      sex as conquest or trophy is
            ego  left
                           like a bug

saturday noon-
this curious prohibition
to not encompass the deity
with  language






















mary shelley hit the target
a BIG idea
machine man
next up
mind man
behind
mind chemistry
and  the  next question
      if a mind  is  all
      what is mind
and then why
did someone  leave
us  in the playground
perhaps  shouting 
in imaginary verse
look what youre losing














was ned ludd right
how is a mind in the net
different from a program
choosing  spam trails,
a thinking machine
entitled and engineered
to preserve a place
in the market
before substitution






speck  of a  speck
seeing my friends eat  dirt
i'm   sure  I'm   supposed to
my  backyard is pretty clean
probably  full of flavor
perhaps gourmet
exotic choices
just like salmon
i disliked in  ignorance

Monday, September 5, 2011














Thou Nature, art my goddess
to thy law My services are bound
My mind is generous and my shape is true
Who in the lusty stealth of nature
take more composition
and fierce quality than doth
within a dull stale tired bed
I grow I prosper
will


















Sunday, September 4, 2011

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Friday, September 2, 2011















our selves
based on our
anatomy
used to embrace
a tree frame
for knowledge
now there are two of you
yet you know not
which you are

























enquiry into thomas














Bartholomew of Capua
XXIX. The witness went on to recall that while brother Thomas was saying his Mass one morning, in the chapel of St. Nicholas at Naples, something happened which profoundly affected and altered him.
After Mass he refused to write or dictate; indeed he put away his writing materials.
He was in the third part of the Summa, at the questions on Penance. And brother Reginald, seeing that he was not writing, said to him:
'Father, are you going to give up this great work, undertaken for the glory of God and to enlighten the world?'
But Thomas replied:
'Reginald, I cannot go on.' Then Reginald, who began to fear that much study might have affected his master's brain, urged and insisted that he should continue his writing; but Thomas only answered in the same way:
'Reginald, I cannot - because all that I have written seems to me so much straw.'
Then Reginald, astonished that ... brother Thomas should go to see his sister, the countess of San Severino, whom he loved in all charity; and hastening there with great difficulty, when he arrived and the countess came out to meet him, he could scarcely speak. The countess, very much alarmed, said to Reginald: 'What has happened to brother Thomas? He seems quite dazed and hardly spoke to me!'
And Reginald answered: 'He has been like this since about the feast of St. Nicholas - since when he has written nothing at all.' Then again brother Reginald began to beseech Thomas to tell him why he refused to write and why he was so stupefied; and after much of this urgent questioning and insisting, Thomas at last said to Reginald:
'Promise me, by the living God almighty and by your loyalty to our Order and by the love you bear to me, that you will never reveal, as long as I live, what I shall tell you.'
Then he added: 'All that I have written seems to me like straw compared with what has now been revealed to me.'

LXXX. The witness added that when Thomas began to feel seriously ill he asked to be carried from Maenza, where he then was, to the abbey of our Lady at Fossa nova: which was done. And on entering the monastery, ill and weak, he clung with his hand to the doorpost, saying:

This shall be my rest for ever, here will I dwell, for I have a delight therein.
                                                                            Psalm 131:14
A little later he died and was buried near the high altar of the abbey church - a marshy spot because it is not far from the monastery garden where a stream runs (which they use to turn a wheel there), making the whole place damp, as the witness himself has carefully and frequently observed.

About eight months later there came a rumour that the Dominican Peter of Tarentaise had been made pope and that he wished the body of brother Thomas transferred to one of the greater churches of his Order.
So the monks of Fossa nova, fearing to lose the body, selected three of their number who dug it up one night and cut off the head, which they hid in a secret place in a corner of a chapel behind the choir. The witness knows the chapel well.
The monks argued that if they had to lose the body, they might at least keep the head.
And the witness heard from brother Peter of Monte San giovanni and from another monk that the body was found entirely incorrupt, with all the hair still on the head. The only part missing was one hand, which the countess of San Severino had.
There was also a dent near the tip of the nose as if a mouse had bitten it. The body had a good smell.
Peter of Monte san giovanni
LII. ... The witness added that after Thomas had been buried seven months in the chapel of St. Stephen, he was exhumed and taken to a place before the high altar, where they buried him again.
But when they exhumed him a sweet smell came out of the grave and filled all the chapel and even the cloister.
And the clothes in which the corpse was wrapped were whole and entire, as was the corpse itself, except that the tip of the nose was missing. And some of the monks in order to make sure of that fragrance, came and put their noses right down on the body and so assured themselves that the sweetness came from the body and its clothing....
Then after seven years, the witness himself having now been elected abbot, he had the body again exhumed and transferred to a more honourable place, namely to the left of the altar (as one approaches it) and under a tombstone raised above ground- level. And in this disinterment also the same sort of fragrance was experienced, and again the body and its wrappings were found whole and undecayed, except that a part of the thumb of the right hand had gone.......

Nicholas of Priverno
And later, about fourteen years after Thomas's death, the grave was reopened at the request of one of his sisters, the Countess Theodora, who desired a relic of him; and one of the hands from the body was given to her. And the body was still intact and very fragrant.


William of Tocco
Finally, the witness said that when he arrived at Fossa nova he went to the sacristy and asked Richard the sacristan to show him the chest containing some of brother Thomas's bones. ...
And when he opened the chest a strong scent came out of it, unlike any odour in nature.
On his asking the sacristan about this the latter swore by the altar that he had not put anything on the bones to make them smell. They always had that scent.
And the witness added that one experiences more or less of the scent according to the degree of one's devotion.













Thursday, September 1, 2011