' Surfaced


                              Someone said i surfaced but i was there all along,

                                                 simply on the other side of the page, you were, looking out a the sea, a correspondence state of reckoning, building big books, keeping others, aside, in your hohoho merry way, crumbling brick and mortar ,

______________________  Yet off the ladder,  F ranny,  +  Jill knowing better aren't seeking conspiracies of desert islands, but columns of monks going off into the desert? Or ,

                                off into the desperate building their 'churches' for centuries,

                       shapin' and retooling history according to a certain hysterical mode  l,
                                       not necessarily one you'd like to
                                    sleep with either,

                but Fanny kept her tool box ready for a moment's notice repartee could change
                                anything , everything ,   love, war,      the tea  party,  a rhyme splendid going backwards,



the secret correspondence of lovers ... and that's why, how come , i ,


                the secret correspondence of lovers, not necessarily one of action and embraces, but of parallel lives over the years,\

               a whisper here a touch there, the odd call, and glance,

                 but that's , lyric, right? you want that you got it, like a strange room with a dozen or more in it she hearkens for the hour of his love,

                coming to  a total shade of  narcissistic believing and loving,

                  that's why you abandoned this 'lyric '   poetry  for the fictions

                       for there,

                taking an instance,

 Things  are Light,

                                    take  Jill for instance her backward glance side-stars on the lopping stair who'd dare convenience for any sake of false fortune, or staying sheep, a stray cow, a bended bullock,

a worn off filter from the cup of forms, in the disarray dispensed  your collage, Fanny knows better

                it's the  five o'clock shadow of desire  in the sunset yards, Anti knows better,

                                       she hears things which make her happy,

                                                                    ending all things with a comma,




thoughts_ seconding


'I' am re-reading Jorge Luis  Borge's  Labyrinths    ~ and did more work on the long poem. 
  ( the i is re-reading "  Borges writes ' all men who repeat a line of Shakespeare are William Shakespeare." )

                                                                                                                               so am I I repeating what ' I ' wrote . as fictions to selves create other selves. Selving the slide of the signifier I.

        and  it's like spring almost

a delicate touch for you 
  velvet as the feather

I am a citizen
  we are citizens

    being a poet is just a part of that
   the world is round filled with good will

  good is the ether connecting

 and Russia the big world yes, a big grand world, one I know a little bit
(from the geography of writers
 And Dostoyevsky  
    and Gogol
    and the
           and a handful of others

                          But  O Dostoevsky is such a good writer
 think of Ivan and the  great court scenes
                      and the escape organized near the end of the book   ~ did the characters end up in another country?
   Did they "reincarnate" into new characters ? Can the characters of a novel be reborn
as people in the 'real ' world?  and what is the 'real ' world?
  is the 'real' world a  ' reel ' one in  the sense of a movie? or characters in
   a Platonic spool ?
      O characters!
   o Movie! 
                  O love bodies o lover bodies.

I must write this fast   as I have to go out.....

                                             Thoughts for you     ~


Plateau part




to sa the half hour hotel


 the half hour hotel

the five seconde love  affair... clicks with the eyes a love affair en passant second s i the metro i love you ... i love you i ..  do i want you...

he a  friend has no idea what loneliness as he dates women steadily and hasa  stream of ex's and would be 's a good man... however, his sense of solitute is not like my own...

he says I have a hot date tomorrow night but its not a date at all. its a colleague who's taken.. anyhow, it hurt me a  little to hear him say this.


Memoir 9/7/10

over two and counting


when I find
my indefinite brain emulsion I''ll be fine the. whoop and way-out of redlight green blue churned amber'll spell the speedy day of indefinite articles. my sandals 'll pay your way. you know each day has been you. Not the You of I but the Ywou of Me and You your Me that's We.

that's called Love. With a capital C.
over each layer of skin i've not multiplie
d is your love. fresh as the day you were born and I .... you and finding was loving. one cannot forget that. everything is measured now by this love,
this invisible love, this in my gut that's you.

in the meantime we happy
as can be
as life is its rolling river


C. Duffy 14/6/09
__________________________________ you were caught toting t he drafts ofa text


Consider this text a required rewriting/ a match text to cover its signifier's death/ looking for a emulsion as it says

_____________  that's the key line


November is ships


   It's sails furling past sails masts, radio aerials too, and the thunder, the hum of ,,



|||||||||||||||||||||___the winter cold might_______________ ||||||||||||||||||


 the winter cold might very well be,
              the winter coat might be  a very well to which whomsoever may recline
           in swaddling breasts and chiaroscuro obscure

                AS Jill said the book was debutante to its date pagan nation
              ration to the gothic gift of a god
                   not favored nor cultivated by her curing nor purring  of the obstiante mule
                           of lover waiting always for your fist move

she'd laid down in the street
                on the road, the avenue,
                             the boulevard,
                                    on your bed,
                             in your arms,
                                         like any other poem,

              ____   draft notes between meanwhile and meantime then,

                        back to t he comma,



gain again a gain what gathers up


a gain is what gathers up
            and gathering up bringing pieces together were broke
                                    lifting not wilting the parts  fell off
                                                                            the narrow ridge seperating life and death



gain wishing


again wishing her again wishing again wishing wishing again gain again well wishing wishing her
well healing whole again/home again/heal again

again wishing her again wishing again wishing wishing again gain again well wishing wishing her
well healing whole again/home again/heal again

again well her listen well to healing mending at the wishing was well


well wishing her her wishing well again well wishing well again wishing her well

her well wishing well, her wishing again again well well wishing her



First week,


                   first week ,

                                                        weekend of November,

                          world turning,

                                                              color changing, leafs falling,
                                            night ,     day,
                             roaming ,



                                                                   light sideways,



suppositions of,


  a lifetime of words , books, writing, words, deeds, words of deeds,f ailure of deeds,

            indeed! a word breath
                 a death
                     Puff you're gone into sun

                             god's air or sunlight ringing in the sky of the fortune and misfortune of others,

                                      but wait, start over,

                        words,  books, love, loving, carrying over, a fresh pail of water,





re :call


 recall means that just that call back the things which put out hanging off a draft of wind the heavy gods pounding off the rounds
  not reckoning on their needing cleaning /clouding/redoin'


_______  like a first bk with printers errors
                        or compositer's capitals askew




   Just chaos cold  loneliness, the lies ,   betrayal, a way of ,

              a singular   manner,  a simple punch in t he mouth,

                             would end things, pretty quick,
                                          wouldnt' it ,
                                            (that poor thing,
                                               ending the ending the rainbow,)
                                                                     with that little whore
                                            or this little tramp
                                                or the enemy at the door herd at the well wall
                                                         enemy at the dam
                                                      ringing the tent
                                                           in  the middle of the round


some obsERVatIons and VaCations abOut LiteraRy ThEoRy


The more literary theory produces the more it becomes a legitimized source of study all on its own. It

no longer relies on the originating works of writers. (But has now begun to exist beside it as quite 

legitimate activity of belles-lettres). Rather it does respect the "original," but brings to it a study of its "means of production" on all levels.  'The '

reverence has been put in abeyance, like authors have been since Barthes Foucault and company

. (are now parenthesised by the incredible industry but with not quite the same reverence it used to have.) Literary theory has become its own source and no longer relies primarily on the original texts 

which once gave literary criticism its raison d'etre. The author has lost his or her pre-eminence - there are different reasons for this; but for anyone who has written imaginative literature, there is a 

difference and a pre-eminence given to authors, especially poets. It seems we have lost the "religious"

or sacred feel that surrounds the poet in other times and in other societies. Why is it we spend so much time interpreting when the writing is in fact an interpretation of us and our lives?

Thy feet

sandal shod

thy feet to measure

he measures thy feet to metre

with real pleasure

the list of the literary theoreticians goes on and on an one
like a heliotrope _ goin by the sun


It's only by writing that you breath, Oedipus, Orpheus,
it's all the same thing, twice, two fingers, twice, --
Birthdays are some thing to remember you didn't get what you want
-- O so life is thee lonely pain bowl, the Christ
of emptiness, and you think all those --- died in gas,
and the others, millions too, died in vain--
Christ,of Jack emptiness
Oh!, damn me out, to hell with Orpheus, his lousy bag-pipes
're meant for pretty girls that kill'em in the end,
or he gets gay, from grief, now that's a nice alliteration,

Mister Orpheus Oedipus with you deluxe edition ego, super-ego, trammeld libido Id, what Id is,/The Wall of Infinity,
and the other places you go, and how to print this,
and what to walk it, making it work , like the slow pride of time,
some bodies, and women , their breasts, make hurricanes happen,
not happiness, but men, over centried centuries /

I see them or something sees them "my" eyes,
which is more like my drive, instinct, cock, something in my head pre-cerebral, pre-Ceres, or rules, by the curve, by its curve,
Ceres not cerebral
Between the Reality and Truth stations

a word

my word

word discovered & held in the

cradle of my thumb


You have joy in your life, laughter and hearth
not the old dead beats of the new and old,
like it goes in their breath
which misses the enlightenment
and their song
their enjambment