From jlehmus@cute.fiMon Dec  4 21:03:20 1995
Date: Fri, 1 Dec 1995 15:43:58 +7516517 (EET)
From: Jukka Lehmus 
Subject: no subject (file transmission)

ASCII version

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                      G L O S S O L A L I A

            Electronic Journal for Experimental Arts

                     Issue 3 - December 1995


     Publisher:  CI Acad. Poet. Aeth.
     Editor:     J. Lehmus
                 Stenbocksv. 24, 02860 Esbo, Finland


Copyright (c) 1995 by J. Lehmus.  All individual works Copyright 
(c) 1995 by their respective authors.  All further rights to 
works belong to the authors and revert to the authors on 

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     CI Acad. Poet. Aeth., J. Lehmus, Stenbocksv. 24, 02860 Esbo, 





     \ Two poems by Jake Berry
     \ NARDG.SAH by anabasis
     \ Building by J. Lehmus
     \ Two poems by Thomas Lowe Taylor

     \ Book of Formation (Sepher Yetzirah)
     \ "The Medical Knowledge of Shakspeare"

     3  Cathryn.L.Welch@Dartmouth.EDU


     2  From: cybercafe 
     3  From:
     4  From: (Jas W. Felter)
     6  From:
     7  Erste Eschatologische Internationale
     8  From:




     Fractal images by Aleksandr Koltsoff (HTML version).

     The translation of Book of Formation (Sepher Yetzirah) is 
     from an anonymous print volume.



     Let us dream the lucid language.
     Submissions, review items, news, announcements, and comments 
     are always welcome.

     J. Lehmus

     Helsinki, 21 November 1995


Two poems

by Jake Berry

Phaseostrophe 128 (for Ivan Arguelles)
                   Anatolia, Ivan, must bear the the
                      bull antlered temples surrendered
                  last witness before She was driven down
                        & the Trojans guilty as anyone
                      so melt the ironworks, railyards
                    gathered in pastie rot memories
                   we'll drink deeply from the bardic strain
                 and fiddle while dawn corrupts the house of god
    power suspended
      across heart-fed rose
          (binds its
          (terse infusion: 
    bone meal and lime
       cut into
      death throe terror
               activates salvent (feathers
        her nipple 
       plains of myrrh

Phaseostrophe 110

    He went down to himself
                length of rope
               and lake of sin
              listening bone ironies
                close enough to shoulder the animal
                 he'd carve from absolution
        "Nothing's changed.
       Did you think a few lightbulbs
         and combustion engines could
       dispel the hunt?"
             ritual condoms
       seal  mainline righteous
          scraping his wounds -
        down to himself
              nothing eyelash ruse
          coughing genitalia (the gesture's mnemonic)
        lone and clean strung
          sardonically breathes


by anabasis


        Love is drawn from the fabric of one's own life;
        how then can one find love truly until 
        one has lived some of that life...

     First Day

        In the %you% of this, I hear tremors recapitulating 
     further information from our mutual interior, that there is 
     already a history fathoming out into the landscape.  I'd 
     held on too long to see otherwise, and into mute sentences 
     cast afar too long aside no rumors persist among the 
     uncommunicative, who, after all, perfect their isolation as 
     if it were an object to become polished and pure.  These.  
     What I'd skipped into, nor time out of itself, but rambling 
     around another old, familiar territory with no one in view 
     for the long ride home, and what was fashioned out of old 
     television images, that is, a cultural memory calling out 
     for chocolate and peanut budder; still the hero persists 
     within, as if solace were too much for such a blunder.  No, 
     the arc persists, drawing you upward from your own station, 
     mists pushing inward from the dream state, it is something 
     which no longer has your attention, it is a part of it.
        Somewhere, I call your name.  My hand goes upward.  The 
     pain has been removed, and yet the particulars of existence 
     remain in their own, uh, realism, wha, their own, uh, animal 
     magnetism; at this pace, no further discussion inquired.  
     But I see the mad fire diminished, and so it should, I 
     suppose, calm down, in the interests of survival.  What was 
     assured a moment ago now has its hesitation, having seen 
     life's persistence at the hour of what passed for something 
     mysterious but which was ultimately something of a draw on 
     my _mentsch_, as I understand it, the life force, vitality...
        " expanse of spirit in a waste of shame..." means 
     just what it says, he pouts.  Or was the word "time" in 
     there somewhere?  No doubt the typewriter is put to bed; I 
     heard a report which surrendered supposed typewriter moments 
     (taking it out in Istanbul and doing some "killer poems" on 
     the bed, nothing but you and the tap tap tap of it) into the 
     space of the nostalgia museum, where lifestyles, old 
     emotions and so forth are franchised out for the hopeless 
     among our masses of masses searching for a lifestyle 
     identity, but without a clue to how to access that space.  
     Why is it so hard to have an authentic life.  I did, but I 
     paid the price for it, and after going to a few AA meetings, 
     I find my, uh, unique shit was really pretty mild, compared 
     with what you can hear at meeting after meeting.
        But lifestyle is another matter, and for a poet, more 
     important, if one is to "become a new word".  Giving up all 
     pretension in favor of something career-oriented is 
     contradictory enough, but to eschew life itself in favor of 
     those importances which befit the token, originality: why is 
     that itself such a nuance, not that each poem is the same 
     poem over and over and that the lifestyle itself could be 
     either a complement or a costume, an evasion of what the 
     work is and how one should be using one's span of attention, 
     to the benefit of fitting in, which one must do, or in 
     driving oneself into the reins of a new terror, encountering 
     the fear and insecurity of working into new territory, which 
     is the same, rather, of passing out from the doctrine of 
     one's safety into the palaces of the practitioners, who are 
     they anyway, passing judgement on the work of others, if it 
     is free war in the marketplace of the world's faltering 
     consciousness of itself, then it is of some importance to 
     address that clamoring, self-centered loneliness which is 
     man and declare the unitive no longer in exile, and make the 
     poem less invisible in its special realm, for what after all 
     has become of what is left of the special realm which poetry 
        Poetry is not another shorthand for spiritual 
     information, nor a realm of special effects which tickle the 
     ends of the brainstem: its special realm is in the kind of 
     truth which is carried by (beyond, suggested) the poem in 
     its interaction with the conscious, in its stroking of the 
     unconscious, and in its relation to the will of the reader 
     (one is taken over, one gives into another out of trust), 
     all of which are a part of the creation of a community which 
     can take place in no other way: especially as the globe is 
     no longer (was it ever) a smoky cave with body language and 
     arm and hand signals playing as much of a part in the sacred 
     rituals as did the words uttered, which after all were 
     really the Word; we don't possess the Word in that we are no 
     longer in the sacred room, but the energies are/have been 
     franchised out over time in the pooling of syntaxes and the 
     relation of grammars to states of mind; after all, styles of 
     thought and mind control can be messed with just as the 
     words themselves.
        And so message becomes less and less important as style 
     more and more becomes behavior.  Entire cultures develop 
     through generations of lifestyles simply by the introduction 
     of facades and the force-feeding of behavior models via the 
     video, when after all, the video could be training us all to 
     be transcendent space captains, as for some it does....  
     Thus the dominant grammar resists any changes of form, and 
     when the change of form becomes a form itself, then the 
     experimental is in danger.  Once a movement or mood or 
     whatever becomes accepted, it loses its radicality and its 
     bite, its do-harder approach in the face of unopposed 
     success.  It's time to retrench in order to maintain 
     invisibility, for after all, one simply wants to be in the 
     here and now, and all this stuff about poetry and so forth 
     was more than we'd bargained for.  And the intensity of the 
     life itself, who would want that; on the other hand, finding 
     yourself with a unique (or maybe even not-so-unique) life, 
     you just don't know what questions "others" (if so there 
     are) are asking.  I continually run into people who don't 
     know what to do with their "spare time", and there I am, my 
     life always in a mess, and besides that, worrying about what 
     the fuck this poetry stuff is all about, that I could only 
     gaze at them in wonder/and the poets I met who didn't have 
     that sort of double life, those I worry about, afraid that 
     I've met a franchisee.
        A ring clings, or surfer bowled, no fatter skeins were 
     foregone, nor concluding sensations where musked out 
     frankers were no longer impolite, I don't see why machines 
     like this shouldn't improve sentence structure since you can 
     always go back and change it; her own signatures seem to be 
     a great distance away from here, and the thoughts of how 
     would you spend your time with someone else, a partner, is 
     more a topic than a fantasy, like telling a friend I 
     wouldn't know what to answer to someone asking me what I 
     want from a relationship when I've never had one that 
     succeeded; the fantasies one has when thinking about it are 
     familiar, not just the sexual ones, but fantasies like 
     having her hang on my arm as we walk in public, leaning over 
     to stick her tongue in my ear or to say something incredibly 
        You say this is to be expected, that as one heals, the 
     urges to normalcy might even be overwhelming, and might even 
     win, one might become normal.  Interesting thought.  People 
     have always been incredibly nice to me, and the only hard 
     times were the ones I created to mirror-out, act-out some 
     self appointed hierarchy of attitudes which seemed 
     determined to convince me that they constituted my reality, 
     made a difference, to evolve or survive in spite of their 
     committee approach to ruling my life, and when the results 
     weren't what I wanted, I really threw a fit, I'll show you, 
     I'll take my toys and leave, to which nobody ever ever said 
     well now Tom please stay around cause we sure like your toys 
     and want you to stay.  No, staying around was always a 
     volunteer proposition, and if you wanted to go off and be a 
     looney, it was your privilege, have a nice trip, somebody 
     told me once when I was doing that in a kitchen in Missoula, 
     "have a nice trip, man" was what he said, not looking up 
     from his (whatever).
        The score: what's the score.  Units beyond measure are 
     called into the dialog.  Various parts of the body confer 
     with eachother in order to decide how they will vote when 
     the chips are down, when the adrenalin rush finally "hits".  
     The other days are just too warm, and not remembered too 
     well at all.  You spoke.  It was too soon, I was not ready 
     to leave my state of expectation and move into something in 
     the here and now.  Maybe that's why you won't send the 
     picture(s).  "Take a polaroid, baby."  A rush.
        Slow music combines with patchouli incense to create a 
     picture of you.  It is all embers and light, and the smooth 
     air between us turns into a viscous love glue, and the rest 
     becalms within a newer sign that we are alive.  You've given 
     out, and call remainder another collar on the lam.  You went 
     on further along, retailing out some newer calm.  It's a 
     flaw, you might say, to stutter beyond seeming into clearer 
     porches, but the bright flow of chance indicates a freedom 
     in which we wish fervently to believe.  Not too far.  Only 
     so far as to, uh, deny denial, or stay within the comfort 
     zone.  ComZo.  Relux outer.  Her sighs detached, like a 
     distant distance, you'd call ahead or fold no outer, in his 
     own fools replete, but sentenced, too.  I am at the beach, 
     writing this.
        Nor orthodoxy recalls his disco days and nights as a 
     complete blur of inattention, your house discarded again, 
     but palled silent nor mist your love's own anchor rusting 
     outside in the rain, your own tears unmixed nor shouted out 
     below, her signs, made intense and sad, continue to mystify 
     and diminish.  Nor excluded, either.  "The Jazz Referrals."  
     Appearing nightly, and too slow within chants to utter 
     disregard.  Nope unintented.  He got too close, once, and I 
     saw myself in him too soon to recognize and too late to 
     ignore.  Outside on the street, I turned and ran one time 
     when I looked through the crowds and saw what seemed to be 
     the profile of my own face, and a familiar herky-jerky of 
     motions which could only be me.  And I turned and ran, for 
     who wants to meet his Same and stop to say hello, better to 
     seek yr Others, and welcome them into some odd fraternity of 
     hangers-on.  She waits twenty-three years in a hotel room.  
     Pipes clanging in winter.  He went out and never came back, 
     but not me.  I'm back.
        The intimate is the union of the personal with the 
     impersonal.  There you have it, voice interpenetrates with 
     what is real, and somehow it is your own voice you hear, 
     mocking the wilderness of dissent, but still a straight 
     arrow in the morning...he pauses mid-stride to see what time 
     it is on his wrist, he stops and looks down at his wrist, 
     now doesn't that tell you %something%?  I've been there 
     before, I tell you, and it's a cold dawn when the sun 
     doesn't  doesn't happen, because if it doesn't, we're all in 
     a lot of beeg trouble.  I wouldn't know, I'd only had the 
     job a few months, and now it was winter and everybody on the 
     crews wondered aloud and at breaks who was going to make the 
     winter roster and who wasn't.  I didn't say anything, a rude 
     stranger with Montana license plates on the old blue van 
     where I went to eat my bowl food warmed over the Coleman 
     stove instead of crowding into the lunch room for supposed 
        "No room at the inn, it decides."  There's a fatalism to 
     that, imbedded as a surface (not below at all)--tells you 
     the inner landscape is crowded with stronger ones than the 
     one to pay attention to you, and the decision has already 
     been made.  Your own fortresses less distinct but lying far 
     beyond what has been described earlier as Moto Plenitude, or 
     Foregathering.  An attitude or a position, in either case a 
     mistake.  You'd be far better off to hold your own in a 
     distant hollow, and mix the two alternatives into one good 
     course of action: retreat.  Here, however, your way is 
     blocked out from underneath in the form of something far 
     more accessible than you'd ever imagined: an escape hook, a 
     giant, rusting turn-of-the-century Escape Hook, gar-an-teed 
     to take its fair share of abuse, no longer a symptom of 
     doubt but its able messenger, and she wanted to do more than 
     hold your hand, I can tell you that.
        Nonetheless, I've longer waited in the here than now, 
     you'd say a doubter then at bay, and your own senses tell 
     you that you have come to rest in a strange lingo out there 
     not at all from what he'd said, and even if your own spells 
     %are% strong enough, you might still carry the sun too far 
     to the left to smell your own blood scattering in less 
     pleasant rows of the dead and dying down; no hills remain 
     after his "flat earth" policy, and the Cat D-9s were grading 
     day and night to bring everything into a suburban 
     tract-builder's dearest dream, to pave and put instalawns 
     down over the entire continent, a coast-to-coast mall, think 
     of the parking meter contracts alone!  But my heart is still 
     beating along, thinking of her in all her aspects, and where 
     are you tonight, Sweet Marie?
        And you--I'd called your land a heathen one, with beauty 
     and darkness conjoined within a patois of power and 
     imagination, close to nature's ruin, somehow in the 
     geographical cloaca of an entire continent, how can it not 
     sometimes smell strangely of life's processes?  And so the 
     beauty you have in your language is as much a combo of 
     mixtures which is native to the region, and though you're no 
     regional writer, there is something in the disjunkt combo of 
     the flow of yr poems could be endemic to the, uh, locale, 
     and in yr work a kind of sexual tension in its progress 
     which is sharp like a knife, the song goes.  I'd even called 
     the even hours a target in regret, and made no longer any 
     tribes or causatives, nor made plain in anyone's other 
     dream, it's mine and I'll tend to it.  Would you join?
        And still no %other% skills the flame without intention, 
     nor finds the healing powers a realm and pleasance, in his 
     eye cast out from foam to friend, a pallor in remiss, though 
     a finer corner turns from down to out in prison stems 
     re-sight your power a namer or a trust, experimental in its 
     place a cause at work nor play you couldn't do a stammer but 
     to saw its unrelenting pride no further than yr snout, a 
     dreamer in your mists and plenty of it, stems no signs their 
     commas shine aside wd have yr plenty signs and doubt, his 
     answer ir-replete but shower, and so much work to it, is it 
     not another franchisee at the counter, asking lifestyle 
     management questions of the counselor, who really only wants 
     to sell his girlfriend (surely...) a guest membership at 
     half price and then only so he can hustle her...   Weren't 
     you paying attention just now?  I sure wasn't.
        Luf is blahnd, he sang, his Russian accent barely hidden 
     by his meticulous pronunciation from the phonetic cue-cards; 
     and beneath his calm exterior, not a blatant choreographer 
     in deceit, you are thus, nor hidden beyond doubt the signer 
     from another scheme:  this is the way out, and if you 
     follow, there are more seasons to tend than you'd like to 
     count on, though if this means nothing, then there is 
     nothing to mean at all, and, man, how do you feel about 
     that?  Can you go with it?  But the calm derides, and you 
     feel flavor in your favor of her mists unattended wires draw 
     along the floor without piety nor any other code word, nor 
     drawling at your cusps and farmers, the latter dude a 
     flatter spin than would detain.  Sharp, the flooder skins.  
     No muler forests that should stop him cold and colder.  
     Tufts.  The fever pleas insense or outer, Cadillac, no, 
     chevron, uh, what _was_ her name?  
        For awhile, I just kept away from them, women.  I was 
     still hurt and afraid, confused, only recently aware of my 
     anger.  I would practice, having the fringe of an intimate 
     dialog with one female, and the tale of another with 
     another, and so on, but that's just life and getting on with 
     women.  The thought of a real relationship just didn't 
     occur.  In the back, yeh, you're dying for it, and keep the 
     whining stranger at your depths, lest he scream with 
     insolvent rage about not getting what he wants, just like a 
     kid.  The range of error is not so great, only its 
     magnitude, its range over time of having existed at all.  
     This you might have glossed over, or not seen quite so much 
     as a flaw, or a possible sign of failure, or its remiss 
     pleasant, document.  Finish that!  I'll no lessor pin than 
     spot, nor cue his own foment into calm and disrespect, a 
     piner at his glots.
        Nor mute, nor insensate chaum, hil'd spot th forded 
     spline its' agronamic feam--hister thuts n'itage pluton 
     grots, then a nire wd mimble in his quaid.  Park yr doter 
     nearer here than not, nor plough its glen and squid, a 
     parker at yr fists.  Theen ack the dimmer spleen, a figure 
     quadding at the plusk; 'a theen th'd doober wast n'plain.  
     Eesks.  Duds, a plumber.  Planar Shock.  News at eleven.
        No, I'd not ignore you pushing at the walls.  Nor wait no 
     longer for your heart to break again in your own longing 
     after love, it is not too late ever, like poor Ivan Ilyich, 
     falling in love on his deathbed as a possible malnutrition 
     or clause of affects.  Null, as only Rembo Can.  Flagellant, 
     migrant toker and leavener of the ovens, his angle of doubt 
     a spectcacular zero point seven.  Oh, outer due, I mask you 
     in this angle of forgiveness, and hold your seven eleven 
     hostage to the moment, as another disguise relinquishes its 
     hold on you, chicken choker, bulb-snatcher in reprise, I 
     await your challenge, and love's, to become holden not 
     stronger, but a whole and sentient man, beating at his 
     trumpet calm enough to see, the rescue having been done, 
     there that.  The total plus, afforded not be sense but by 
     discard, and in what was done no heroism but a calm position 
     from which one would not retreat, and when romance was 
     declined because one was not, uh, ready, was that a sign to 
     give up?  Hardly.  And now you are still available is what 
     they say in the books, available for what, for the mystery 
     of it all to descend throughout this returnable hook which 
     keeps baiting you with its own dialog, no it is further from 
     the truth than that, and you beckon willingly where no other 
     fears to tred, and they said that Star Trek had done more 
     for, uh, whatever, than the space program couldn't compete 
     when someone said, yeah, that's cool, but I saw it on Star 
     Trek last night, well, it's hard to compete with, ah %de 
     Toqueville%, you rule, and where there is nothing common, 
     there there is also no denominator, and so nothing divided 
     by nothing is yet nothing, where you might count on some 
     kind of intervention to release you from this eternal funk, 
        And call your name into the center of my left hand again.

     Second day

        You'd plussed out the stringers in their own hesitant 
     endorsements of women as humans, thinking only that "they" 
     were or are some other race of life with which man-kind (or 
     not) had either fiscal or political relations, and while sex 
     was a pleasant memory, it was nonetheless the habit of youth 
     itself to enjoy that which it had little appreciation for, 
     and while sd appreciation might have come late, it sometimes 
     didn't come at all.  I mean so much is made of the so-called 
     differences between them, men and women, that it is almost 
     impossible to see the similarities at all, that what is 
     going on in most coupling, if such it is, is a development 
     of the individuated personality underway, depending on which 
     partner you look at or which aspect of the relating you look 
     at, there is still a dominant and still a recessive in most 
     relationships, and to find a couple in balance one must look 
     far, for they are hidden in their ordinariness from the view 
     of those who look: there are no flashes of personality or 
     even of color by those who no longer look to the outside for 
     acknowledgement either of their sexuality or for that matter 
     of their right to exist.
        You'd not reminded but occupied a newer space within me, 
     as if in the discovery of a hidden self I found you there 
     too, nor mystery but in pleasure follows, nor to share out 
     but hold and spin and grow, uh, that way--interior signs 
     fall ahead into the light become, a rose, a shower, a newer 
     spine & center, evolved from love and not its opposite.  
     You'd been there too. Or still a hurry or forgotten 
     implement, was toasted therein by expansion; so thinking of 
     you is causative in its pleasures, nor empty in its 
     imagining of what is real (enough)--later on you'll spell me 
     out against time, moving through declensed passion its own 
     reminder that you are here within time and space, existing, 
     you might say like an outsider on the inside and an insider 
     on the outs.  Yo ho!  Of course, the pictures are not 
     enough, but something to decide where to look when your left 
     hand calls out for a name, a face, a gentler act within than 
     wanting....  No stars willing these sighs, thighs, uh....  I 
     hold through the morning.
        Distance calls the signs newer, more remote, assigned to 
     risk and its consequent declarations of chance & 
     committment, as you are imitated among those whose partners 
     remind or then assemble wherein, but noticed, her heart 
     beating aside your own, and in what is called to accounts, 
     called to action, you are speech in the making, but silence 
     in recall, a quieter doorway remained open long enough to 
     get through, and we got through it in the midst of silence, 
     the silence of reading signs and letters, and the silence of 
     the heart in its own growth and pressure to be real, how the 
     arc is triumphed in simple emplacement, the stain....
        I held you once in firmer stars, and let my own 
     impassioned reasons intervene with what was storming from 
     the heart, only to ignore my self in reasoning that what I 
     wanted was nonetheless from the deeper layers which 
     permitted such feelings to exist at all, nor in reason 
     steeped but called affirmed to hollow-out her slated rhyme 
     nor season, but cold upon the layers of the old, I marked 
     your signs as something new and welcome, but stilled in wait 
     I held with caution from the way where something called out 
     for me to lean ahead and take the signs where they led into 
     forgiveness and re-time.  But the heart's slow welcome 
     flowed from side to side and made me dizzy, or culled from 
     the cloud heights, some raster plume, some foamer-spoon, 
     delight your words descry from loaders in the skip to 
     schemers in the mist.  I awayt yr only line remits then 
     clouded one-on-one recalls flight among the distances, a 
     yearning which is then fulfilled by less inert beliefs than 
     what would hold you down forever in these learnings of the 
     heart's way.
        I called resistance a part of tempo, just as the skin 
     remembers the graft and the time before, and welcomes it 
     from wherever it came.  Were you so preoccupied as to 
     forget?  I never did, not for a minute, not in the depths of 
     what I knew was not real did I ever forget the sign to which 
     I was (am) drawn, whether it be you and yours or not I can't 
     as yet tell, but I know the inner drama indicates some 
     fusions and extensions do occur, and beyond simply enjoying 
     a mutuality at some vibratory level, and I have friends like 
     that, with whom one simply feels good, I know that beyond 
     recognizing that emplacement within each other, that there 
     is something unrecognized between us which is now in motion, 
     unrecalled, unfinished and potential, and what is a letter 
     but a part of the many, spoken softly without, but courting 
     nonetheless, as active and pronounced, even though there's 
     no one to ask for permission.
        What took finally held, or the reverse, what held, 
     finally, took.  You too.  I can tell though I am overwhelmed 
     by your Molly Bloomin %yesses%, or maybe whelmed, too, by 
     their fluidity and repose, in their promise-to-be-real, nor 
     spasmed-out, either, a fog left along your coasts and 
     valleys, nor earth to become real as she is the sign of what 
     welcomes you back to your existence in what receives, seed, 
     climate, opinion, and love's cool anchor in the heart which 
     says hello, or receipt, or golden hours recall'd with what 
     remains of innocence.  It's hard on top.  It's a hard-on 
     top.  You know the difference.  Did I say this before at 
     all?  You'd lean back and give.  What's life to the other 
     becomes one in yr heart assigned nor leisure, but competent 
     within chants.  Alight. Furred into.  I held your rhymes and 
     reasons were not there at all, but potential, coming into 
     view like a random fashion which clicks and holds beyond 
     what you thought might be the reasons for your continuing 
     this, uh, dialog with whom and its consequences which lie 
     far beyond the mere horizon of simple risk but follow from 
     time spent in waiting but before, nor a myth one has 
     hollowed out from his left hand clawing the air year after 
     year, it is a healing and a becoming which clears the way.
        A space is made, then set.  And time resorts to its own 
     relinquishment, as if.  You'd polled that and found results 
     within your grasp, a chance worth taking, a sign worth 
     leaving, no longer a part of the movie which seems to run 
     day and night, but an allowance for an intermission and 
     perhaps a second feature would follow what could only be 
     described as something between an advertisement and a 
     cartoon.  Another franchised lifestyle, when to purchase 
     originality with one's life led only to the exclusion of 
     others in their own misery, or joy, and yrself with that 
     special isolation one finally wants to rescind for something 
     a little more pleasant, a little more mundane, and yet the 
     special time has its own reward, like a cuteness one comes 
     to dislike in others only because one has suffered through 
     it oneself, or like understanding, finally, why those old 
     people act and look the way they do, you can sit there and 
     see exactly what happened to them in the cast of the voice, 
     the later-life posture (either of victory, or defeat, or 
     resignation) sitting across from you at the table at the 
     Grub 'n Stuff in town, her hair in its tight gray curls, 
     maundering on about some uppity female by whom she was 
     noticeably threatened, which accounted for her snide, 
     aggressive posturing while the hubby hunkers down over the 
     cheeseburger & fries, dipping each fry slowly through the 
     pool of ketchup which diminishes on the side of his plate, 
     the side of his life, you mean.
        You've plunged into yr own stuff, too, I can see that, 
     which beckons some destiny, eh?  Or wd've anyhow--naw, you'd 
     never run into me, nor I you, beyond this stuff we do.  It's 
     a cling.  Cling to a spin.  To loop and tell, that where's 
     delight your own within straining to finally get out 
     (again); separated at an early age, the lovers reunite quite 
     by surprise, finding in themselves the seeds of what they 
     were as youths and lovers who [were] parted too soon to know 
     what they had in store for each other.  A bit like 
     deMaupassant's fatalistic short story, the lock of hair and 
     the watch-chain; and in remiss you call no shorter than 
     before, but have meaning and tense to your adverbs, even, as 
     every day before dawn the moon sets inside time's own 
     permission to recall, return, restore what was once promised 
     but left aside in the hurry to leave what was really not so 
     awful but perhaps only premature     squirms of passion and 
     reason which were left untold, unexperimented together but 
     which finally yeild to what calls you back into the dream.
        I never thought I'd have this, a place to write, to be 
     alone for days at a time and fucking not worry about it, nor 
     did I think I'd have the time or patience to do so, I 
     thought I'd always live with the uncomfortable need not to 
     be alone, helpless clinging afraid-of-the-dark bullshit, not 
     that I was entirely, but there it was, a hamburger with no 
     meat, my life.  Now it's there.  Relinquished doubt scores 
     its opposite, and the light returns within you calling to be 
     free, which you are anyway, and that what you sought was 
     found, already there in the first place, placed first within 
     and found later, goes the story, calls the day, hums the 
     hummer in her own delight.  Be a hummer.
        Ancient rhythms chart their own rise and fall, or where 
     you are again resumes the day's own plans to do something 
     new today and go where no man has gone before, not so 
     difficult, if you think about it, a repetition calling 
     time's line away.  I spelled the day.  Here's a spoken work, 
     "Love" arching my back into you, what's called return or, 
     just, nice.  Nice.  It has an empty ring to it, reduced as 
     it is to a commonplace; though %en retard%, you are my 
     sunshine, falling as the rain, you are my sunshine, please 
     come again.  Squish & plum.  You'd sharpd.
        I have this air besides what's unexpended; his field trip 
     is underway, no doubt, and here I am, thinking you'll arrive 
     tomorrow, when it's probably winter before you come to 
     visit, flowers filling the air with their own repleteness, 
     making a sign between sighs which would declare the new age 
     to have finally begun "against all odds" was how you put it, 
     which was its own sort of problem, or that I'd wait for it, 
     after all, the best should come in at the end, %n'est-ce 
     pas%?  Nor occlude the outer liners to commit no pressure in 
     the portable room.
        This is the portable room.


     first day

        Your curious self-portrait, eyes staring intent at a 
     camera with no one behind it....  A mudra of expressiveness 
     practiced for a real encounter, and the eyes declare their 
     readiness and intent, still it is a photograph.
        "Power, you sang as we march in the pure 
     ides of day, what know we of our dream, older than 
     ourselves?"  (St John Perse)


        I think poetry is the attempt to reclaim language from 
     the machine, from the force of darkness which exhibits 
     itself as something which is "out there".  It is an attempt 
     or a battle as it were to make the word become flesh, to get 
     what is going on out there in your thinking about what you 
     are doing to a place which is deep within the core of your 
     being.  I am the event, it goes.  Not "I am the poem," 
     that's a commonplace.  And to say "I am the event" is no 
     solipsistic drabble, because it is the beginning and not the 
     end of the process of what, mastery of one's self and 
     emplacement within the scheme of things, you, uh, just know 
     where you are.  The experience precedes the model.
        "So at some point, if we write, we come into or towards 
     an understanding, and the page will no longer hold the work, 
     syntax and grammar and spelling, all of the wonderful tools 
     of communication, language itself, is no longer a vehicle, 
     but is a barrier.  but we write, we are writers, so we begin 
     to do battle with the language, writing becomes a violence, 
     writing against itself.  We eliminate punctuation, ignore 
     correct spellings, invent new words, invert syntax, scramble 
     grammar, scatter lines and columns of words across the 
     page-as-field.  We lose control, discard control, another 
     barrier, ego at its words.  We use chance, collage, found 
     text, improvisation, borrow rules and methods from other 
     areas of practice, other disciplines, from techniques of the 
     sacred, from the visual arts, from music, from science, 
     write chants, verbo-visual constructions, aleatory 
     arrangements of syllable and letters, mathematical 
     arrangements, lyrics derived from chaos theory, fuzzy logic.  
     We use computer assisted designs, random patterns, random 
     number generators, iteration.  But we end with language on a 
     page, or on a screen, or maybe on a canvas, or as the spoken 
     word.  What we have produced, the creation, the addition to 
     the stock of available reality, is not what we want, and is 
     not all that we get, and finally, is not what the process of 
     working, or the work itself, has to give.  The process of 
     working against barriers, slowly, returns us to the source, 
     less intensely, and partial, but recognizable, a different 
     tilt of light stretched against the horizon.  It is the 
     discipline, the work, the praxis, a sort of upaya, perhaps, 
     or kabbalistic inner magic, as in Abulafia's doctrine of 
     combination, that returns us, that opens the content that we 
     come away with, and it isn't statement, or communication of 
     any sort.  It is text.  Let's call it poetry, because of 
     those before us who have called it poetry.  It takes us away 
     from our attachments.  %It redesigns the dendrites%.  It 
     opens into other realms, the innermost of each particular 
     which is the ineffable beyond.  As far as what we do with 
     the writing, what we can do with and in it, is concerned, we 
     come to realize that freedom is the only law.  For the most 
     part, this is best left unsaid.  But it is the case." (fr 
     email of 7 Jul 95: JL)
        Nowhere better said.  It is text.  It is freedom, and 
     what are in those?  We are the progenitors of the sacred 
     codes, those repetitions of time (in space) which 
     _sahaja_-like bespeak of the access to the space wherein 
     freedom lies.  In syntax in communication are the sacred 
     codes expressed in the timeliness of ones barks and growls 
     which signify communication there is yet the unspoken 
     invisible text which is (perhaps) as binary as the on and 
     off of rhythmic en-trancement of speaker to speakee in this 
     rite of sharing flesh to flesh, blood to blood, which is man 
     in the act of being how poem, how Vincent says "Life is the 
     poem" and means it what does he mean and how do we come to 
        Nonetheless, we have taken back the streets and I think 
     that's what your list above indicates, that most of the 
     various available avenues of fuckin around with words 
     themselves are now under our control.  The computer is 
     another matter, and that comes later, but look at Olson and 
     what is important is not so much the doctrines of the 
     proprioceptive but in fact that it get done by a man (sic.) 
     in his means, that one come to breath come to life and speak 
     in these rhythms like the muezzin at the top of the phallus 
     tower challenging us to leave consciousness for a moment and 
     bask in the glow of the nothingness of just being there.
        Who you are to come back into my life when it was 
     "something ventured, nothing gained".  But the truth is that 
     we bonded beyond measure and what is left is another story.  
     I mounted you, I mourned you, I put you away, I let everyone 
     go and came back another person, and you too ventured into 
     your life like something you needed to do, in order to 
     relive the pain or advance into the arena where you would 
     hold forth in your own battle to become yourself, and you, 
     too, stopped writing the codes and patterns which so 
     entrance you that, like the chinese dude-poet who was so 
     enamored of the reflection on the surface of the water that 
     he fell in and drowned, is it like that where you come from?
        I loved you like a twin, like \Dylan says, somewhere in A 
     Simple Twist of Fate.  But you know what I mean, it was like 
     hands across the darkness for me and I always wondered what 
     was in it for you, we never talked when we were horny as if 
     that was some sort of taboo in the long-distance love affair 
     which could not be abrogated.  But deny it not, we fell in 
     love over a project and are left, each of us after an 
     excursion into the dark from which we battled out, you did I 
     think, or have, or want to, I know you want to or you 
     wouldn't have called and we wouldn't have caressed the past 
     so lovingly, we are still in love and wonder what to do with 
     it; at least I do--like ok, now what?
        I know what I want: to feather upwards into the heavens 
     as a column of light [see end of V GER] in communion with my 
     other, my feminine my machine of light, in some caresses 
     made human by love; The Silver Surfer.  So, I felt we'd be 
     twin singers, another part of the dream, uniting in song, 
     creating the new word; but I neglected to notice yr 
     corrosive edge and obsession with apocalypse, and thought 
     that in yr transformation, you'd experience a 
     rebirth-in-love wherein your tendency to lyricism & song 
     would finally predominate; but no, the human in us is too 
     much present, and we each descended into our plasm, me at 
     the end of my inappropriate love affair, and you at the end 
     of yours.
        This is John Galt.  Remember?  He who controls language 
     controls everything.  Having broken the sentence, having 
     mastered the avenues of transmission, the forms themselves, 
     all we need to do now is fill them with light, fill the 
     empty streets with the waters of life, fill the void of the 
     internet with poetry generating machines. [see Horndog^1^].  
     But I think the radical of what we are about is to rule the 
     world, no longer, uh, unacknowledged legislators of our 
     wankers but in control of the medium itself, we can make it 
     do wheelies.  And the transmission of the unspoken codes 
     which we learn in our jazz-like suffering through 
     experimentation when choice is linked to pain or joy or 
     whatever, it is a mere internalizing of emotion, a 
     self-willed muting of speech and sublimation of its honesty 
     into the tapping of the fingers on the keyboard of chance 
     operations in an attempt to (re)write King Lear.  Face it: 
     we have broken syntax and control the means of (invisible) 
     transmission, all we need to do is exercise that control and 
     the rest is gravy.  
        Certain syntaxes and word-emissions are liberating, we 
     learn that in the random fluxus of our jazz solos, and that 
     in listening, or re-experiencing, or whatever the 
     (ineffable) relation between singer and song is, we learn 
     that in his own mimetic does the witness relearn the codes 
     in his cellular presence that what is heard is also made 
     flesh, and as we are together in performance (be it linear 
     or mental or spoken/heard) it is nonetheless the word made 
     flesh, what we are talking about unawares that it is already 
     happening, has already happened.  "moon & stars & signs 
     astrological/fling animal into phases of personality 
     or/inscribe symbol onto chaos: here I stand..." (SSN)  "Grow 
     imploded stars in play, vertiginous spirit.  Your portrayal 
     of hour fire...." (JL)  And you, unbearable sign of my 
     relinquishment.  Call at the mark of my own disaster, 
     relieve me of yr dusks and sentences at the morning of 
     light....  For I have heard you yearning in my own mists, 
     husking out these lesser terms for light, benign presence of 
     love in my own making out you were not alone is likening 
     what we do to something cosmic and prhaps satisfying but in 
     no way a substitution for the real thing, or else we 
     wouldn't be out here hacking away at the bamboo which has 
     grown into everything....
        So face it, the old order is corrupt. Finished.  Of no 
     use and pertaining in no way to the problems of now.  And it 
     is as Gertrude pointed out, that the art of a time must 
     mimic or contain those survival codes pertinent to that 
     time, and obviously the old order (it depends on you to cut 
     it off wherever from now you wish to) no longer transmits 
     the necessary codes, even as a foreigner listens to the 
     staccato bursts of sound which is poetry in a foreign tongue 
     and knows knows what is being said at the meat level.
        This is dealing with poetry among humans.  The computer 
     poses other problems, since each medium of transmission 
     (printing press, alcohol) has its own rules and styles for 
     what gets through, and so you always have to analyze the 
     medium of transmission at the same time that you analyze 
     what was actually transmitted: poetry on the computer will 
     have to use chance and information aesthetics to be "true to 
     itself", for what use is a message if it doesn't respect the 
     vehicle which transported it, as it were, from here to 
     there...  Unless that's too much, uh, communication theory 
     for you.
        Love, on the other hand, seems more determined by present 
     circumstances to grow out of what is there than from what is 
     not.  And inasmuch as you are not here, how can I love you?  
     Too much in the realm of my dreams, I long for what is 
     unattainable and get what I ask for, a love which is, in 
     fact and at present, unattainable, yup, you get what you ask 
     for....  Now if I ask for you, fer yew, what wd I get?  And 
     would you give it?  You've proven admirably that your fear 
     of love is greater than your desire to have it, isn't that 
     what the recent episode points up? 
        "In advance of the broken arm" no longer rings true.  
     I've a friend, Connie, who's been a confidante throughout 
     all of this, my own thing, I mean, and I recently found out 
     that her own way was a lot like mine, the alcoholic husband, 
     a new relationship and all that, and it seems to be working 
     for her, and I asked her how they'd met.  She said he was 
     someone she already knew and they like looked at each other 
     one day and said, yeh, maybe so....  So the whole idea of 
     falling in love with someone you already know is, more like 
     when you were growing up, if you did before now.  I mean, in 
     my own case, it's just now.  But what would we do?  Ah, yes, 
     making due.  Or the idea of falling in love with someone you 
     are already in love with.  What do you want anyhow?  Most 
     don't know.  Do you want to be transformed by love, to unite 
     with another?  Or is that all just another bunch of bushwa?
        What's not enough, another spreading triumph outside the 
     law, your own remissions nor coded skins they've left around 
     the campfires glowing with the last signs of life on the 
     planet, no food in the alcoves and just too many souls to 
        You'd ben thr, dun thet.  Uh, yeh, too.  More to spark 
     than triumph, more to have it centered than to feel any more 
     pain, there's enough of that to go around.  This was plenty, 
     I'd rather have a life than whatever this has been, and that 
     seems to include relations with women, or a woman, or what?  
     What if we just didn't like each other, so many of my 
     relationships have been preceded by the body language and 
     dance of lust, that first one is attracted by a style or a 
     moment when "it happens", and to seek that physicality in 
     whom one has already felt the pangs and spasms (once or 
     twice, I will admit) of lust but never seen, thts another 
     deal altogether.
        Which is to say only that the quest for the beloved and 
     the quest for the word made flesh have been parallel but not 
     undecided and not always aware of each other, but usually 
     so.  Here enough at the beach without you, wherever you are 
     tonight, Sweet Marie.  And the poem is without integrity, it 
     is all poetry and diction and voice and that's where it went 
     astray into something new, first the different voices saying 
     nothing and then the different voices wanting to say 
     something but having forgotten how to do so, and then voices 
     saying what they are all join in a transcent song unwinding 
     and yet joining into a column of light uniting at the 
     crescent at the sign of the millennium.  All divisions 
     cease, let them have their material reality, the sign of the 
     planet must be made or its image will not exist in the 
     consciousness of man, he will live his brutalized, codeless 
     existence, not that the codes wd cease to exist, there they 
     are in blues chording, for instance, I am in the radio.
        Clean my lizard.
        We don't need to worry about what to do next. It's thrust 
     upon us, and the core dilemma is ours not because we are 
     poets but because we are human, though as we work it 
     through, whatever the illusion is that fascinates mankind at 
     the moment, it is our work to give code to our expression of 
     the relieving of the illness at its point of human contact 
     as far as language is capable of doing so, and when language 
     becomes phenomenal and no longer functions as a carrier of 
     illusions, that is if the illusions no longer work as 
     illusions and have become, simply, relics in our museums, 
     then how we sing and dance in our words is the message 
     itself, and the medium has become the message, to bear at 
     least that prophecy out, what that statement seemed more 
     than anything else, a challenge to make it so, as Capt 
     Picard sez, to make the poem itself the message of the poem, 
     as it were, and so we have by reducing image to its 
     redundancy in time in consciousness in percepts we see the 
     image as taking too much time when lingua structs can carry 
     energy more efficiently and with greater bang for the buck, 
     that is, more of a rush when it strikes you either to write 
     it or to read it, I mean we're not writing this way by 
     accident, but because it relieves the pressure that we are 
     trying at that moment to "write through" with writing, that 
     is as one becomes addicted to it, a kind of cosmic 
     analgesic, ah, there now, that's better, an erotic fantasy, 
     a cosmic fantasy a lingua fantasy whatever and you go on not 
     writing image-driven poems like they never ever existed at 
     all, leaving the old order in the dust, and of course the 
     question is where does the old order end and the new order 
     start, and who gives a shit really, but you'd guess that the 
     recent tendency (just this past year) to anthologize certain 
     periods of modernism or whatever you want to call it, that 
     those points of demarcation are also points of historical 
     maintenance, that as the thing is set, so it is.  And then 
     what follows is, uh, after that.  Tottel's Miscellany.
        I would be your stolen ham, ringing with delight.  I'd 
     hold you down the streaming times the hour called to touch 
     again no matter in your mists, a name declining expression 
     but come to its thirst and clamor; and inasmuch as "they" 
     are in possession of the language by virtue of, uh, making 
     the rules, that is for how transmission occurs at all, then 
     we who are diminishers of respect in the facts of the 
     unknown are also purveyors of disorder at the comfort level 
     where most humans exist qua language.  Nonetheless, you 
     begin to see certain language-driven formerly poetic 
     constructions (statements in which syntax is disrupted, for 
     instance) beginning to worm their way into advertising 
     lingo, the current way in for new forms of language, rather 
     than fringe activities and their supposedly inside jargon, 
     railer skate frinstance.  I'd be your friend just as I seek 
     my own, uh, companion, we have the killer giggles, you know, 
     that seems legitimate, something I've never had; and to take 
     control of the language is to take control of the planet, 
     and if what we generate is a superior form of communication 
     and begin to teach others in its use, the supplemental 
     benefits to a new grammar (such as the state of mind which 
     accompanies it) would be hidden from view, which they are 
     anyway.  And you'd sing.
        And so to the extent that it is all diction and voice, it 
     is therefore important, finally, just what is said.  OK, 
     Joe, you've got the mike, what's on yr mind?  And you begin 
     to stammer some sort of nonsense about the goddess and 
     getting high on adverbs, and the semicolon, for god's sake; 
     what next?  You'd better have something in a nonsensical but 
     available vocabulary or you'll lose him to the sound of it, 
     and it'll be Wong Dong San, sitting there slackjawed 
     listening to Dylan Thomas do his Child's Christmas in Wales, 
     pure sound cascading through unknowing ears, does it make 
     any difference, in the %Euphues% of it?  So there is a 
     signpost somewhere between jargon and the word.  And the 
     word be flesh by being shared, but seeing the commonality of 
     all utterance, of mixing in the final collage of display and 
     tenure, of silence and the mumbo-jumbo of elocution and 
     magnificence.  "I've got a porch light."
        "betrayal of desire" it leaks out "I am flattened animal 
        I believed my own technology, and felt alone.  I got 
     tired of that.  Rastier dudes portrayal, no loner in the 
     heart, but sufficed of that, too, no longer straining at the 
     midst to final aloner no more matter to the fog be-lined, 
     duh, blind to chance portions of doubt resist no more 
     aligned but left aside behind as memory but not one that one 
     has, really, but one that one had, one has the memory of a 
     memory, and what wanes in presence is that which has not 
     been reinformed or brought back to life.
        "text gleams machine"; I thought that because of who I 
     was or thought I was and who you were, or who I thought you 
     were, that this was a marriage made in heaven or some such, 
     and that besides that I found you foxy and elusive and 
     somewhat interested in me, %affaire du plume% I fractured 
     it.  Whch is good as long as it is good.  But how else are 
     relationships made?  And do you always have to end up 
     working out the worst?  "But no phoenix I, 
     reconnecting/severed limbs & plumping out--/I am flattened 
     animal corpus...I do not away rise up and walk"
        What stains purpose away from its infinite originality, 
     the elusive strain is not the worst nor necessarily what I 
     ask for, ending out beyond seeming who you are, as, who 
     _are_ you after all, now, disconnected friend of a thousand 
     battles ago, now we are panoplized benitent pressures 
     (accented-out), tomorrow came and stayed beyond expectation 
     occurred, but healing out the tempo of poetics is not a 
     poetics of restitution but of recovery, as I have come to 
     understand the term in AA, but in an even wider (or 
     narrower) sense, what our work has been for a hundred years 
     or so, beginning with Breton, Tzara, & Duchamp, though for 
     me Tzara was the most politically inflammatory, but with 
     that effort begins the struggle to free language from, 
     whatever, you know the drill, but that the struggle is now 
     over and there is another, more challenging task ahead, 
     which in yr discussion of vision and transmission must also 
     lead you to see that filling those channels with those 
     questions and answers, giving a form that _is_ to the void, 
     that's what the work is.  
        And you who furnish the seas with my opening sadness, you 
     who call to me in the isometric wilderness of chance, you 
     who sing in the forgotten languages of the foreign students; 
     unassembled discord gives way to the heart's own song, and 
     what was once disjunkt enables into a forward weakening of 
     its own rage, and poetic diction might be less inclined to 
     give up its dissimilar attitudes toward word choice in 
     flavor of more useful constructs, but then someone pointed 
     out to me that the inventors of things never reap the 
     benefits its the developers who later come along and 
     commercialize ("popularize" in the case of ideas and styles) 
     said innovations into a marketable enterprise.  Syntax 
     Associates.  you know.  Mind Control.  Only it's not so 
     insidiously self conscious out there.  Sure, there's people 
     out there watching trends and gambling on what they see, but 
     the evolution of syntax from filling to emptying is a step 
     away, now that surrealist dogma is just about, uh, not 
     discredited, but it's used up in some way, the surrealist 
     styles made their way through the advertising and 
     popularizing intestines until now, where the whole style of 
     seeing is lodged in the cloaca, "in advance of the broken 
        But then, you say, in the hands of the same old machine, 
     every new idea loses its integrity (as new) (as 
     revolutionary force) and becomes the same old product, the 
     same old society changing the names of the innocent to 
     protect the identities of the guilty, and all the rest.   
     Cultural history is as much a series of coverups as 
     political history is.  Though you have to believe from the 
     prophecies (and they are available wherever and whenever you 
     live) and the old stories, that the invisible substructure 
     of life manages to exist in the secret whisperings of the 
     militant mendicant priests and warrior priests, and so it 
     goes that when you listen to your own interior around the 
     campfire late into the early morning when the drugs have 
     finally begun to die down in you and you are empty and 
     vulnerable from within as well as from without, that you 
     hear the ancient growlings from deep within you, tumbling 
     out like the distances themselves, like another voice coming 
     from your interior.  What does that have to do with our 
     dialog?  Are we not speaking in tongues always?  Cola non 
        Horndog's secret mist, by chance encounters with the 
     other in his own secret, penetrates to the loins of the 
     prince of darkness, he strokes the outer loci of inattention 
     beyond what was provoked in the first place your own 
     whatever on the face of it no matter was removed against 
     your will and lesion would particle calm the doubter his own 
     restitution was palled forward in your heart's dimension 
     made a calm flutter of what was once flattened gumbo on the 
     plate of the stranger when you forgot everything....  I'd 
     begun the whole affair, if so it was, in my own outright 
     sense of need, I'd been honest with a chuckle as much from 
     my own need to confess (and to a woman, my shrink and I 
     worked on that one), and I did, and so now everything is 
     different, goes the story, and whether or not it is has not 
     yet stood the test of time, and in time's own beginnings 
     might I find the yew of yew, an' how it might have been, 
     Leon goes.  I've made nothing yet, in spite of all I've 
     made.  Now it's, uh, on the way.  Rites have been observed 
     and yet the whole deal has not been tested.
        What happened stemmed from an inability to give, give in 
     to love's possession, and on the other side was possession.  
     In my own case, "compulsion ruled the nest".  From whenever.  
     And so all the twitches which now accompany me into living 
     alone and liking it, no doubt, become proverbial causes for 
     alarm when isolated into being with someone.  I've been an 
     oddball, long enough when I met you not to be worse by now, 
     or at least more of an oddball than before.  Certainly the 
     rest is new, unmet, untried in its own time.  But I know 
     that if they knew what we were up to, they'd worry about it.  
     The best is that they don't.
        Your own personal observations are welcome, but I have a 
     problem some times knowing what is poem and what is self, 
     and I know how and when I hide behind the lines and how 
     little it works, it is all so transparent, like when you're 
     drinking and you think you're invisible, that you're getting 
     away with something.  And what is a spell, too, has you by 
     the balls, and hand in hand you go down to the sea and melt 
     beside it in your own fantasies, but left to go aside in 
     what was once wandering outside the heavier fits besides 
     being filled with surprises contains the secret of surprise 
     itself, and in that unknowing trance, to accept what is no 
     stranger really, but an unfathoming of the deal to senses' 
     own left alert into and besides, where you were kept from 
     knowing who she was and caused you to go for all those 
        Or were they transmits on the face of denial? Love in the 
     absence of any proof has her face down on the bed, crying 
     again, or plotting my demise, or calculating my misconduct, 
     who needs it?  What called out.  Was real.  The photograph 
     still holds me on that morning when we sat at the table, she 
     & I, and I took the snaps with my little Leica, bing, bing, 
     and there it is, and that what went down was no dream left 
     on the magnificence of what was remembered.  No, you want 
     that magnificence to return in some fashion that doesn't 
     burn you into insignificance & on the other side of return 
     there is the downsizing of all that is familiar into its 
     particular location, how he sings in the background as you 
     fly along these particular moonlit trails and paths, into 
     more circular parts of your self than you'd come up out of 
     and from into the into, but there's the song on your behalf, 
     and you know I'd hold you in the moonlight, singing your 
        I fielded properly, I dealt in musk and binge, and held 
     no favors too long nor for too much, if anything, a little 
     too honest, too ready to give it all away, and along the 
     time I met you here and there, no other gives you here to be 
     the same and not no other in the looting of time and what 
     you do recall in close houses, on cold floors, in the 
     remembrance of penetration and her cries to you, you 
     remember all that in the resonance of what has been there 
     for you to remember at all, though its mix with fantasy is a 
     lessening of each and not to the credit of either.  Where 
     language permits me to exonerate my own conceits, I do 
     pursue thee in the manner of my passions in the cooler airs 
     between us sometimes unknown member of my other dream, I 
     call you in from outer space where you have spent these past 
     ten years, and I call you back into the air between us in 
     our more remote locations to hear the time you sent me a 
     letter unannounced questionnaire from the heart's 
     mumbo-jumbo (there it is again) where you made no takers 
     from their own specificity and in the time-honored crouch 
     into the leaning-forward position wanted not so much to, uh, 
     score, as to get revenge on the family, besides which I 
     always found her to be completely sexy, slinking around the 
     house like she was ready for it at any time, which later 
     turned out to be kind of true, at least from what the diary 
     let off to more than one guy in a day, was a little 
     embarrassed and not to say a little impressed by her ability 
     to, uh, schedule everything and get away with it for so long 
     and not get diseased or anything, that was before AIDS and 
     you wonder; then, a phone call out of nowhere from Florida, 
     I think.  
        But %you%, who do you think you are.  I wonder, because I 
     know we both want to know, after all, never knowing what was 
     possible nor even a matter of interest, but you %were% the 
     model for one piece and continue to have some hold on my 
     ability to go off and write more than I thought I would.  I 
     don't know if that's good or not, nor do I know even if this 
     is fer yew, but between time and memory, I can get this down 
     another rhyme and meter, calling the day into question not 
     like something you remembered but like an expectation in the 
     midst of questioning how you might remember that you'd left 
     something behind and wanted to know what it was and where 
     you might have gone wrong....
        What's spent beyond recognition?  They know we're here, 
     but don't realize yet that we are in control.  Nor do we, 
     for that matter.  It's a matter of behaving as though you 
     were in control, how do you think that they've been behaving 
     all this time? As if they were in control.  Oh well:  
     submissor and submissee.  Good money drives out bad, but I 
     think conventionally it's the other way around: and so it is 
     with syntax and the unknown, if you have a voice for it, 
     they will listen; if you build it, they will come.  She 
     looks back with a certain smile from the photograph which is 
     now 15 years old.  I remember every bit of it.  And how she 
     called later and said, remember, we got away with it.  And 
     we had.  Until the last screaming episode from Patti, when 
     she threw that back in my face fifteen years later, that I'd 
     been sleeping with two women at the same time.  Is that the 
     poem in its transpositions?  This is a journal today, not an 
     epistle.  Jimi Hendrix reflects out of the past in good sound
        "You will rise again, Desire!  And you will tell us your 
     other name.  O passion....."
        I found you down around my ankles more than once, I cried 
     my hopeless diagram of trouble in the provinces, and found 
     myself amused and alone at the end of another trail; 
     departing for where?  Here?  No more (mere) hesitation, the 
     boat is ready, it will carry quite a load; crossing the 
     great water begins to be more of a possibility than 
     something in the book.  "Why do you want my picture" she 
     asked.  "Do you take pictures of all of them, all of the 
     women you've had?" and her eyes widened pruriently.  "No," I 
     said, feeling sad, "you might not be back."  And she wasn't, 
     at least not like that.  I paused her knots and seasons in 
     my run down to the ends of things, and I waited like that 
     for her to catch up with me, breathing hard against my 
     chest.  What passed between us was an intimacy from which 
     there was no denial.  "You'd be another loom," she called 
     into the wind.  "No matter," I whispered.  "It's noon."
        At the unspeakable room, you deny your heart's outer, you 
     leave time astir; "form is the shape of a handful of air."  
     It is kinds of statements that take you here and there, not 
     so much what they say as when, and how the strategy works 
     toward making you think think you've been or are being 
     "talked to".  She smiles from the photograph.  The obsession 
     of the flowers.  The other stuff too, what made it mad.  It 
     is definitely the pursuit of the whatever, not love's.  Pure 
     density and outer plinth.  I'd musk.  I'd dig you deep and 
     long, we'd stay in bed all day, just the way you want.  
     Probably asleep.  You are time's memory of itself.  I have 
     invested the wind with all properties.  God is in the wind.  
     In the winding.  Wintered out and smoothing.  I've you in 
     mind tonight (O lucky me, she says), for something, uh, more 
     mental.  Oh, great, we're going to think about it.  There's 
     safety in that.  No meter in yr mists.  When you have 'em by 
     their syntax, they tend to get a little testy.  Hey, boy, 
     get your hands off my syntax. Adjust!  Adjust!  And goes 
     down the long way winding out from here to there her message 
     on your heart, give again, dearest, I've in mind to come for 
     you again tonight, come for you in your dreams along the 
     long trail winding out as only fantasy can into the mists of 
     where we might have been....  
        I'd been gone too long; a paragraph is not a rehearsed 
     fragment but a whole in the sum of its parts, made coherent 
     by no disabilities on the horizon at least within its 
     internal registration--a shift from here to there made into 
     an alignment of possibilities, perhaps reiterating the list, 
     or the litany, along the way toward a solution; in the 
     composition, there is a solution, but in its paragraphs, 
     nowhere would there appear to be an answer at all, & it is 
     in the pure weight of evidence, style, and argument that the 
     composition makes its point, wins its day, as it were; it is 
     in the becoming that takes place during the course of the 
     journey of the argument that the word somehow becomes flesh, 
     becomes felt, that is, and then you've got the hook in your 
     reader [who] is as likely to go back and start over as 
     anything else--at least he/she will realize that going back 
     over means that you're looking at it with different eyes.  
     Each time.  And you know that secret while you're sitting 
     there.  And when you go on you've been changed.  A little.  
     A little bit at a time.
        It says, "Yes, that was!"  And it was good.  And so the 
     reparations have been made, at least from the point of view 
     of presence, at least there you've been plain enough to 
     reoccur in the presence of others at least their own 
     questions are the ones you listen to, not mistaking them for 
     the shadows from your own unconscious.  Not in the presence 
     of others do you distinguish the closet cloth makers from 
     which their own presences delay and formalize, uh, evidence 
     of stopping.  It was no fun, spending that year without you, 
     but neither one of us knew what to do with it, it was that 
     sudden.  Not a topic really, I just got overwhelmed by life, 
     caught in a side track where I had no business being there 
     in the first place, some karma to live out, I guess, and 
     your adventure into what you'd been skirting all the time we 
     were talking, about yr love life and marriage and how they 
     were after you, and I sure as hell wasn't having that 
     problem, so what did I care; all the time the twinship 
     denied and my dream of penetrating the heavens in a column 
     of light intertwined with you went down the tubes, whoever 
     you were, subject of a couple of grainy 
     less-than-greyhound-booth quality, uh, snaps, otherwise a 
     voice on the phone squeally giggle over troublesome details, 
     and the tough poems of pain and language and whatever 
     elemental details attracted, not just another face in the 
     crowd; a relationship of 3 years' duration, or more, and you 
     want to know where do we go from here, when you aren't even 
     writing and seem to be going through some life madness 
     episode, me only recently emerged from same, after all a 
     year out is not so long, not long enough to consider a real 
     collaboration, but yet the whole game is rolling along and 
     suddenly the cosmic has reappeared to man just as Vincent 
     said, as the millennium approaches they'll get nervous, 
     raise up their collective head and wonder what it's all 
     about ronnie.  But then I'm getting off track.  when what I 
     know is that there's some kind of unfinished business 
     between us; like one of those relationships that goes 
     through an episode where they say, no, if we had sex it 
     would ruin a beautiful friendship, I've thought that a 
     million times, and where does it get you.  All I think about 
     is that we finally meet and each doesn't really get that 
     particular squish and tingle from the other that is required 
     in a relationship that wants to be passionate.  And the part 
     about working together, that's another story.  But you can't 
     say I haven't thought about you and gotten along quite well 
     without anything in particular happening but talking for 
     half an hour the other day and missing you.
        Says your other.  I've been alone too long to think 
     otherwise, too.  I don't suppose you've had a letter like 
     this for awhile, but then, who knows.  You're right, I'll go 
     along and run into some SYT, as we used to say, a Sweet 
     Young Thing, and maybe have enough presence, support and 
     good will to keep myself together, and as you say, something 
     nice will happen to me.  I'm kind of digging this, right 
     now, writing to you and smoking pot and listening to some 
     music I like on the radio, and what else is new?  And beyond 
     that, who are we to each other?  We had a hot affair once 
     and then went on, and now come back to say hello and what's 
     new in your life, and went on again in the back seat, 
     dreaming of writing another poem as much as of having an 
     affair in the back seat.  Though there's that to think about 
        Oh well, its a hole in the wall, a hole in the air, and 
     you go in to find what's there behind you in the other 
     ethereal realm, undivided as it is into any partitions or 
     changes  made into whole cloth the realm is undivided, and 
     no longer reams chance in the butt for another quick fiver 
     in the dark her eyes her eyes told me everything, and it was 
     still more than I wanted to know, quick rhymes in the 
     passion of everything, where you went along so long and then 
     you spoke out, in the room full of everything there she is 
     in another hallway outside the rooms and in the mists 
     reminding that it is here and no other calls you back into 
     the sunlight where you started.
        Your panache.  Smoking Shermans.  The slow drawl of your 
     eyes. and when we were drinking, Bushmill's it was, that was 
     trouble.  My heart was on my sleeve, as it still is.  
     Carburetors.  Oh, yes, now is the time of light.  Anything 
     printed can be shared, even this, even thus.  My love for 
     you has no privacy.  Wanker's Corner, a local bar.  Number 
     nine.  My love for you has no piracy.
        Your panache. speaking in tongues.  The latter porches, 
     or have allowed more.  But spoke.  In sense or outer in 
     these markers still collide, but meet you smoothing in the 
     lapses of inattention still have too much to say, as if I 
     thought every poke of the keyboard held some great interest 
     for other people, what a bleeding ego, and go on with it, 
     tapping out reminiscences of doubt, leaving the calm air, 
     besides.  No other's outer.  Her own room heal'd, too.  
     Roughed sheep asleep.  And I'd gone on, too.  Into number 
     nine.  Your crushing arrows went deeper than passion's 
     positions on the nine o' tails, too.  Butt exploded.  In no 
     outer can than caning outers, others, too.  I'd marked them 
     straight up and no other.  Wheezing no repetition had them, 
     too, swelling out, or spilling.  Spelled, was what it went, 
     and when you taled-in or spent, it was here and there.  
     Whence.  Her eyes.  Where are you now?  Where is any of you 
     now?  Now that I need you, goes the song.  My own, too.  
     Where are you now, now that I can give.  Goes the song.
        So where are we going right now is the question, and the 
     answer, too, to have fun after all enjoy the moment, it is 
     now our own, and lay claim to what is not taken among these 
     areas of the new territory which are just now being staked 
     out and claimed from inattention and neglect, an entirety 
     which is as yet hitherto relatively unexplored--we go beyond 
     the corner entry and check out the gloom beyond, it is the 
     here and now, and it is empty save for the echo of our 
     voices in a hesitant, gray atmosphere which is lighted from 
     somewhere, above or beyond, and where are you tonight, Sweet 
     Marie.  Relative to what.   Just as what said wait was 
     awaitment itself.  No other ringed the court without piety 
     or transition.  It was the empty shell, and you were light 
     at the center, in conversion and making small talk among the 
     pygmies where you grew up.  It was also noon.  Sit both 
     ways.  At once.  Duh.



        Your beautiful but purple skies, forever amber waves no 
     fucking bullshit I too saw the best minds of my generation  
     but where are you tonight, sweet marie?  You'd yarded out, 
     but held here among the natives where you want further than 
     you ought, we count the signs among us that there are no 
     lesions on the song caught unawares by the midst of plenty 
     in your sheeps astir.  And here, woolen, ought, the reminder 
     of the significance of the chance we have altered in our 
     penetration of the outer husks of what there is left of the 
     altus mundi, the frotter pluden, the other half.  And you 
     were caught no doubt in your own planter, cooked into 
     submission by your own doubt, whatever, and meeting her half 
     way is no feat for the indecisive no matter what you 
     measure.  Up to.  And in the chances we have taken with our 
     time, wasting it in the name of patience, for God's sake, 
     what we have left with the opportunity as it presents itself 
     is to make hay while the tractor is still warm is how Ross 
     Perot was quoted.  I think in one of the shaman dreams there 
     were these two rocks crashing together back and forth, and 
     he had to run through them, and like they say, timing was 
     everything, and, bang, you were through into the next, uh, 
     cavern or whatever.  And so the acquisition of voice 
     ("verse") no punter squat, but hazeled in between history 
     and its opposite as the mere experiencing of self as it is 
     an obsession and not a gateway.  I mean, you'd win?
        Yod'd plud.  North they wane, nor to get away, either.  
     I'm in no space but your own, that is, unwelcome as this may 
     be, nor transcend, transect a fictional "there" as opposed 
     to your own mark on the universe which right now you are 
     totally obsessed with, as if the Universe gave a rat's ass.  
     Nor scatter out these other voices coming as they do in 
     amongst David Koresh and his near Cousin the very rev Jim 
     Jones.  Our heroes of dark hours remiss no love was ever 
     sung too deep to measure out forgiveness Amin the center 
     exploded with its "extra people" concept and the Malthusian 
     demonstraction, who exactly is in control and of what 
     exactly would you do with it anyway?
        The document precedes.
        First deep singing no hours left their clarity unknown 
     syntaxes relate the structure of anything to its random 
     sounds in the palette of the mondo structuro of the heart's 
     beginning to hook into spasmic reclamation within paragraph 
     structure at once the same no-man's-land of the document in 
     its own presentation of the facts, how are you here in 
     control of what exactly is the nature of the language in its 
     distribution across time in the sensory apparatus of the 
     listener, the witness first who claims in attention the span 
     of the message in its first delivery into the appetite for 
     what is new.  Your own disorder might precede the witness 
     into the laboratory. Yod plud'd, nor bent her arm against no 
     will is left on the face of the planet save your own 
     pathetic paying-attention to the self inflammatory noises of 
     the feed me feed me apparatus of the mind's own bending into 
     the noise of the wind from the inside to hear the storm 
     roaring through in its asking for clarity of thought to 
     penetrate the mystery in its forgiveness and its forgetting.  
     But spent, the energy too far gone to realize and must 
     therefore be regenerated, Scottie, what the fuck are we 
     going to do?  Displace that modifier, Captain.
        And we are in fact going down into insouciance, or 
     displeasure with certain molds which have lasted far too 
     long for the emerging unity and recollection of its singular 
     past, to find an image or an energy or a specific code by 
     which the transmission of sd unity can be massaged, I 
     believe maybe what the harmonics of the tonalities of the 
     giant horns the Tibetan monks moan through.  Whale tunes.  
     Delete.  I'd held them responsible perhaps for what is no 
     longer in style or mere measure, driving harts no specious 
     derision, her hamper fosters light waves the ear denies its 
     hold on conscious endeavor, butter not within heart-shot, 
     another plume distend, and I'd held.  Nor fashion, but 
     declares the matter of control and the islands of 
     contention, like for what or over what, I do think that 
     language is the issue and that what passes through the 
     conduit be in the hands of responsible people, no mere 
     mechanics of the blunted stripe.  And so the singers return, 
     populace and throng, nodule to the mounted spin, nor 
     emptying into mystic froth, no matter how you slice it, it 
     still comes out baloney, but harries forth with a sense of 
     mission within still more silent binges on the internet, but 
     what of the suicide, what of the emptying of the silent hour?
        I even tried to write you, but the letters to some 
     apartment unit down there in Florida somewhere, they just 
     came back and that was it.
        And so love without or deprived of its obsessive quality 
     would be what, the calm glow of the silence of the heavens?  
     Nor that far away nor matter in the skipping glow of what 
     substances you've left afar too long to remember why or how 
     who was even listening the first time you read they all and 
     I mean all fell asleep, but it was ten thirty and after 
     three others.  Still, I knew the trance quality worked, that 
     if you set up the right rhythm in the flux and flow of the 
     fragments, they with their own musicality and 
     interreferential sound patterns, would entrance (entrapment, 
     you might cry) as the staccato plump & pun of the word flow 
     calls you down into the deeper layers of association and 
     remembering, and you get a false nirvana inasmuch as that is 
     a low (whatever) wave in the top end of the spine lets you 
     down easy easy now into the couch baby and spin again in the 
     center of the song you remember owning another version of 
     the same thing went this away and not calling any more in 
     due time, nor falsifying anything but this sense of purpose 
     and desire in itself a memorable experience not any longer 
     being alone in this mire any more than anyone else, that is, 
     but calling out, there is more water in the pool.  
        And who is in control of what the language does, whoever 
     is in control of what the language does, whoever, that is, 
     is in control.
        Punt.  I'd held.  Signifiers in time of essential remiss, 
     nor platter.  Butt held, nor forms.  In time, that, too, wd 
     give way to pure juice, at least in the time of composition, 
     that you do get loose and find the unexpected in control of 
     the loss of what is there besides the shadow, uh, you know 
     "falls the shadow".  A spanker.  Went further, held.  Some.  
        But here you talk more, and what is said among us becomes 
     our words are spoken out like something drinking water is 
     like that, when among your friends and outers, there is 
     agreement and spawn in the telling of the tale.  Here among 
     the priests and fathoms.  You'ld spin, her center of oracle, 
     the demands of the flesh, I understand you now in your 
     conceit, giving up the torrid dress, that was it, and in 
     that giving up do I see what has happened to you this year.  
     Nor robbed nor given, but told, OF SPITED IN. 2-wha/nor 
     outer, butt held to the innert ear.  Your old can of 
     three-in-one oil had its own Mandrake quality in the bump of 
     the pump in your ear, where are you beloved, and what is 
     your name?  In my own dream I fall asleep, a dark, internal 
     slut.  Gainer-missed.  At the rut, she held me down again 
     and again we came together.  Once maybe.  And in the 
     sentence, cast, alight, foreign, how we displace our grammar 
     without intention, more out of carelessness, our Random 
     Academy, wielding their shears and intents, making rules 
     about adverb safety and concentrating at last on the comma 
     in its five levels of use, through to its relation to the 
     period, the absolute.  No more.  It's dark and the sentinels 
     have left us alone with the waste we left behind, and I 
     returned to settle it out, Berkeley, that is, the first of 
     the dark, dusty streets of the here and now, wherein the 
     froth of the broth is still the same old bullshit, and we 
     are in control, we are in control, we are in control, etc.


        Doorwise mainframes recalled that messages were left 
     purposely incomplete, indicating rhythms unexpressed by 
     specific contents left in the realm of the implied; unstated 
     hesitancies become a part of the design itself, and noise, 
     leakage, or friction become elements or forces of intent, an 
     oddly ironic testament to form-warp, or something in which 
     an aspect of the development of an idea or stance turns back 
     into the whole and leads to a stylistic repetition wherein 
     reference itself is a causality rather than a byproduct of 
        The exhaustion of one style leads to production of work 
     within a comfort zone, where the scent of the chase is 
     toward familiarity, resolution, acceptance.  Where was risk 
     expressed?  Was it in a color or an attitude?  Only the 
     composition knows.  Nor other flippant commentary leads one 
     astray, not into the center of the document (a source 
     outside the composite), nor do definitions particularly 
     matter in the fluxus of determination which is progress 
     itself.  No, it is not the material itself which matters, it 
     is as though the progress of a material through to 
     expression were out of your hands, or should be, for how 
     does progress come about, certainly not by frontal assault, 
     that's surely the best way to oblivion; a hand is shown, a 
     way is made, then set.  Nor occlude, but star-out into 
     evasiveness, there is certainly a tendency to skip to the 
     left, or just sort of sidestep the charging bull--he moves a 
     slight inch and a half to the right and the locomotive 
     charges on by, over the cliff, and into the berry patch, oh 
     no, not the berry patch, sez br'er rabbit, why I just loves 
     the berry patch.
        Perhaps this leaves you feeling a little impatient.  A 
     good wander does, but there comes a time when an approach 
     seems to work and becomes a little too comfortable, lulls 
     you into forgetfulness, and that's the time to jump.  %One 
     learns how%.  I'd missed the boat two or three times, then 
     swam.  My own journey means nothing to any one but me.  The 
     examples therein are made pressure in forgiving and in the 
     tenor of use which emerges from the voice one hears, not 
     particularly in the story itself, for there are infinite 
     stories, each one worse than the one preceding, or better, 
     or different, and finally a cacophony of implements of 
     denigration, a salience of the profunct.  Finally a single 
     song or voice of sensation and emotion emerges from a callow 
     morass, he flickers into submission and, uh, %hears%; you 
     are alone still in the silence of self, alone in the movie 
     of mourning and encrustation, how your pitiful wails into 
     the darkness of your own soul go unanswered for maybe all 
     your time in step with your secret, but then another realm 
     reveals itself into language or hesitance an unbidden motor 
     of the heart's bestowal.
        A light at the end of day reminds you that here is the 
     spoken tomb of the new beginning, and in that change there 
     is also renewal.
        What speaks against us is an unwilling tendency to listen 
     again.  It is no joke that the sentences come out this way, 
     it is a fairly new sign that something is taking place, for 
     what is worse than to revolve around the time one has in a 
     sense that nothing is taking place, and although the news is 
     dreadful year after year, still the houses on your street 
     always look the same, and suddenly you are at a meeting of 
     people with old habits and white hair and you realize that 
     they are you and that nothing has changed in all this time 
     but the beating of your undesigned romance with the quest 
     for perfection which you failed to notice was going on 
     underneath your eyes like a pancake on the plate of life, 
     syrup oozing into the profusions and markings of the butter 
     on the edges.  Still, it'd eke.  You'd nor mark, nor held, 
     nor phaeded in the plud off star, nix, plume at, somer at, 
     the fording skin of shoot, yr flamer hooded at the plume.  
     This is not new nor is it forgiveness in the heart but 
     spinning hours you call response or token push't into newer 
     realms of desire and flame.
        I think there is new.  We are falling all over it but 
     missing the specific gravity of reference, and that is why 
     it is new.  Can one in process become aware of process and 
     yet not retard the forward motion of that history, given 
     that it is a salience slightly beyond the grasp of 
     perception or intention itself, like, no fucking around, 
     this is it in the locus of potentialities, and now is the 
     time to act is both a slogan and a fact of life always 
     present in the cellular larvae of intent, the slighter gasps 
     which precede action itself, how long will you just think 
     about it?  Don't get left astir.  You'd be encouraged to 
     scuttle all your lifeboats and just swim for it.  Don't 
     forget to leave what's left beyond circumstance (if only I 
     could get the nasal twang).
        So the footnotes and cross-referential dogmas have been 
     abandoned to the wolves, they'll chomp the baby you've 
     thrown from the sleigh as it races toward Moscow, that'll 
     slake their blood thirst and omit you from the sentence 
     proper.  Somehow, you think, the observer is not the 
     observed, and that even so, within process, your very self 
     consciousness delimits purpose from its crust, its very 
     progress if only because one is carrying the extra 
     twenty-five pounds represented by the normal human head, if 
     only you could sort of guillotine-out of thinking itself, 
     then you could really go fast, like the chicken with only 
     half its head cut off, twitching around the barnyard with a 
     ten-point migraine, oh, if I could only finish this 
     paragraph I could go on to the next one.
        So the spaces between words are also the spaces between 
     atoms, and you'd finally notice that the vast darkness 
     inside prose is in the very *phlogiston* of the material 
     world, and that true communication with language might not 
     finally be possible, and so a kind of truancy develops 
     between the verb and its noun, and the diagrams seem to have 
     a lot of dotted lines in them, as if there were a kind of 
     obstinacy in the material itself, that which precedes speech 
     or language, the word itself before it is made.
        A scrim or perhaps notice in the midst of plenty.  You 
     are not yet complete.  Still the monster gleams your heart 
     away.  There is some blind intent driving the words from 
     you, he marks and you follow.  Or she, whatever.  In the 
     vastness of what you have ignored, there is simple 
     description, that's all I can do for now, talk about what 
     the room looks like, uninhabited save for the figure in the 
     chair in the center of the room, noticing.  Yet scrim 
     remove.  Nor push to pleasant realm.  The doter and the 
     dotee.  As in "owe."  This declension is not held nor formed 
     apart from this.  There is "that" and there is "this," the 
     doctrines yield into us.  Like the sideways thrust beyond 
     which the incremental makes a foray into silence, boasting 
     of its willfulness to the heart's fancy, I'd not mention 
     this to anyone, but carry it forward and into the cellular 
     level, you cannot do otherwise; in the strategies of 
     self-healing in which you aspire to have one substance in 
     the body communicate with another, how about beating on the 
     heart/head thing for awhile, not noticing the absence in her 
     eyes when you can't "give," it's nothing mean, you say, it's 
     just the way things are.  It's a hole in the wall. It's 
     another dark absence where you wait at the corner and nobody 
     comes.  A sharp cool.
        So I'm trying several things at once, perhaps to defeat 
     the loyalty one bears toward one's communicant, directing 
     the line of fire into the crowd, as it were.  You'd not 
     notice in your electronic things that there is a crew of 
     intentions reeling within the paragraph, and as it wanders, 
     there is a naming taking place which eludes even your most 
     potent notice.  He said he just wrote the first sentence and 
     the rest of the thing grew out of that.  No plan, just a 
     copying out of what wanted to be said, and if there is no 
     directness to the spirit, then nothing will be said at all, 
     and you're still in there safe behind closed doors wanting 
     to get out, I assure you, the more you bet on it as a locus 
     of safety the more cold winds will blow up your pants legs, 
     streaming forgetfulness into the day's own tempos, lining 
     hours with their own vegetative calm.  Into seeming sent.  
     Where's the beef to that?
        Yet the master evasiveness is more than a clue to what is 
     not noticed.  It is the cloud under which you operate, your 
     own private Idaho.  Would you share, for that is another 
     call, requiring a *moto plenitude* of doubt, a release of 
     purpose into the order of following.  Here you are 
     confronted by the sentence itself, and you rest within that.  
     You'd meant torpor not.  Is it cultural history?  We're 
     after naught, nor begun anywhere, it's that cool.  And the 
     purpose of that stuff is self-serving, as are most purposes.  
     That's their purpose, you might say.


Building (blind writings)

by J. Lehmus

     I.  The King in his dreams
       H     a tower
       Builders' ballet.  Alarum
     II.           three figures
          LAST LIGHT
          FIRST LIGHT
       Below       wavely ~
       I am losing the hold
       of my body.  My hand
       is writing my mind holding
       the idea FORTH each word
     IV.  I am sinking.  Brood.
       Above a chess table.
       He'd like to build.
       Fasten to earth   to drill
     VI. Ice formations
       ASTRAL.  Lighted
       building in a ballet
     VIII. SUN
          All without a sense
             of Time/place
       arising from my feet
     IX. I am walking across
          the Hall.
     X.   TAB. RASA
       some locked door
       behind which there's
          black space
     XI.        TOME
          somnial work
       Great building
     XIII. Hand.  I feel sinking
          I feel sinking,
     XIV.       CONFESS.  SONG
       thus repeated lines
       sinking.  Branch the
       I have sung
          mind.  Consciousness
     XV. Still        GUIDE
          Through a dark
             passage.  Red _fire in ink_
     XVI. All         IO SIN CATALOGUE
       I feel like wise
     XVII.   CASTLE   /dream building
       White stone
          dark granite texture
       of paper documents
     XVIII. Tablets
             law of
       Sin tablet.
     XIX.       CLOUDY AREA.
       ______   Field of Flowers.
             ARRANGE.    words.
     XX.     some thing
       I am reading a text
          The rubric says
     XXI. Script to celebrate
     XXII. Older Sense
     XXIII. With mottled skins
             changing rime
          emir. EMIR.
    Appendix: The Ruin of the Bestiality Legends
    The relic text opening to retrace into the tightly ideated 
    psychosomatic union, the horrible gemination, singing 
    standards as blood-eye icons confluent to preside upon 
    twinbirth, prayer for these half hearts ill gaping, rose 
    aster emitter to twine cordial in heir-blood coexistence and 
    writhe in sealing the virgin sores (clad for worn), rotating 
    snare mantras in an ordered rhythm.
    Upon the Lord Sebaoth scull the keyscale script to 
    coordinate the fratricide theory, the man against himself in 
    clone colonies addicted to gored blood.
    Gilt silhouette: long legged birds of marshes, twin pelicans 
    to pierce their breasts.

Two poems

by Thomas Lowe Taylor

    Daily Log      June 11, 1995
    Delay, she said, your arcing triumph, no meat `er
    in yr mists, tracked below handles of door was
    inclement disc her own private Montana of friction
    refunds the dream's significance in parts bestrode out.
    But the bee stings.  I know that.  They'd wheeled into
    my own swinging Kung Fu of escapes no doubt the
    apple itself an issue over what might become you
    in sense or outer, heel'd-out and thrum'd a thalweg.
    Love had you over me, and what leaned at first
    forward knockers would stray intent calmer pines
    are not reclined butter knocks out hammering lines
    the pastor delimit from hoser dogs the outer air.
    And hits them upper dares decide my own populaces
    whirring remind re-wind or blowing skin away
    from the business at hand, a hand in handed
    hours I watched out how you came inside me.
    These lobes of rhoda; not imprecise, you know, butt held
    from indistinction in players also shelled out to
    other hours sung perhaps away from all of this
    infernal soup of knots.  They polled me for this relay.
    And dare your name my lips ahead & stammer outer parts
    are inner scenes of light beheld inflamed passions
    let under hand their own fumes and alt positions.
    Your dick.  The shielded spiner spoke out again;
    at last a truer design was in the work no starts
    too soon but was it just a dream away you
    said the day would come again and stay & stay.
    The collar answer'd, but there was none.  My luck.
    Daily Log      Jul 29.95
    Neither abandon nor light all there is,
    you are someone made intense by time's lines
    from the heart, outer makes its way inside.
    Yr art & sentenced marked illumined from within.
    Nor foment staum, relax her outer tempos in
    this is the timing span, I called you dream enough
    to become present within circumstances favored by
    what's come, come to pass, passing into the air to be.
    Re-lidded repose no master enjoins beyond doubt
    what's flooded sense a sign within at outer coils
    have dotted the landscape, and you were there.
    A flutter abides her presence, wings spread for flight.
    This land so long unspoken of love's attributes along
    said passion's positions more than tongue's convenience
    into song along your long line into that as rides
    between gasps becomes this, made flesh as word.
    It's the empty hours that weigh so long, despite these
    tremors to the contrary realm, as I am contrary , too,
    and sped between alliances as if there were no in
    between to spare these sensations of their thrift & song.
    She came to life & spoke shuttered portions opened
    out to my own arena of concord & spin to
    lesser gods have opened up to give against you.
    My dick.  What'd been a calling turned out to be
    an answer on the telephone from about twenty miles
    down the downer dream what's gone from this
    picture spares you the softer aliens denied love.
    Tenor leaven.  She turned around & laughed.  My luck.

Book of Formation (Sepher Yetzirah)


[1]  1.  By means of thirty-two wonderful paths of wisdom, YH, 
     YHVH of Hosts, ELOHIM of Israel, Living ELOHIM, and Eternal 
     King, EL SHADDAI, Merciful and Gracious, High and Uplifted, 
     Who inhabits Eternity, Exalted and Holy is His Name, 
     engraved.  And He created His universe by three signs: by 
     border, and letter and number,

[2]  2.  There are TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT  and twenty-two 
     letters as a foundation: three are Mothers, and seven 
     double, and twelve simple.

[3]  3.  There are TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT  the number of the ten 
     fingers, five opposite five, and in the center is set the 
     Covenant of Unity like the Organ of the Tongue, and like the 
     Organ of Nakedness.

[4]  4.  There are TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT  ten and not nine, ten 
     and not eleven, understand with wisdom, and be wise with 
     understanding, test them and explore them, and understand 
     the matter thoroughly, and restore the Creator to His place.

[5]  5.  There are TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT  whose measure is ten 
     without end:

        depth of FIRST, and depth of LAST,
        depth of GOOD, and depth of EVIL,
        depth of HEIGHT, and depth of ABYSS,
        depth of EAST, and depth of WEST,
        depth of NORTH, and DEPTH of SOUTH.

     Lord, Only One, EL, faithful King, rules all of the from His 
     holy Dwelling-Place unto Eternity.

[6]  6.  There are TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT  whose appearance is 
     like lightning and whose limits are infinite.  And they 
     speak with each other to and fro, and they run at His Word 
     like the whirlwind, and before His Throne they bow down.

[7]  7.  There are TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT  whose end is fixed in 
     their beginning, as the flame is bound to the coal.  For the 
     Lord is the Only One, and He has no second, and before ONE 
     how can you count?

[8]  8.  There are TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT  shut your mouth from 
     speaking and your heart from thinking.  And if your mouth 
     runs to speak and your heart to think, return to the place, 
     for thus it is said: "And the living creatures ran and 
     returned"^1^, and upon this word a covenant is cut.

     ELOHIM, blessed and blessed is the Name of Him who lives 
     forever, Voice and Spirit and Word.  This is the Holy Spirit.

[10] 10.  TWO: Air from Spirit.  He engraved and hewed out 
     through it twenty-two letters as a foundation: three 
     Mothers, and seven double, and twelve simple, and they are 
     of One Spirit.

[11] 11.  THREE: Water from Air.

        He engraved and hewed out through it emptiness and void, 
        mud and mire,
        He engraved it like a kind of garden bed,
        He raised it like a kind of wall,
        He surrounded it like a kind of ceiling.

[12] 12.  FOUR: Fire from Water.  He engraved and hewed out 
     through it the Throne of Glory, Fiery Angels, and Ophanim, 
     and Holy Beings, and Ministering Angels.  And from the three 
     of them He established His Dwelling-Place, as it is said: 
     "Who makes winds His messengers, the flaming fire His 

[13] 13.  Three letters from the simple ones -- He sealed Air 
     through three, and set them into His great Name YHV and 
     sealed through them six extremities:

        FIVE: He sealed HEIGHT, and He turned upward and sealed 
        it with YHV.
        SIX: He sealed ABYSS, and He turned downward and sealed 
        it with YVH.
        SEVEN: He sealed EAST, and He turned forward and sealed 
        it with HYV.
        EIGHT: He sealed WEST, and He turned backward and sealed 
        it with HVY.
        NINE: He sealed SOUTH, and He turned right and sealed it 
        with VYH.
        TEN: He sealed NORTH, and He turned left and sealed it 
        with VHY.

[14] 14.  These TEN INTANGIBLE SEPHIROT are ONE --
        AIR from SPIRIT
        WATER from AIR
        FIRE from WATER
        HEIGHT, and ABYSS,
        EAST, and WEST,
        NORTH, and SOUTH.


     seven double, and twelve simple.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, 
     SHIN: Their foundation is the scale of merit and the scale 
     of guilt, and the tongue of statute balances the scales 
     between them.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN: MEM stands 
     still, SHIN hisses, ALEPH is Air of Spirit balancing the 
     scales between them.


        He engraved them,
        He hewed them out,
        He combined them,
        He weighed them, and
        He set them at opposites, and
        He formed through them everything that is formed and 
        everything that is destined to be formed.


        He engraved them through Voice,
        He hewed them out through Air,
        He set them through the mouth in five places:
           Aleph, Chet, Hey, and Ayin in the throat,
           Gimel, Yod, Kaf, and Kof on the palate,
           Dalet, Tet, Lamed, Nun, and Tav with the tongue,
           Zayin, Samech, Shin, Resh, and Tzade with the teeth,
           Bet, Vav, Mem, and Pey with the lips.

[18] 4.  TWENTY-TWO LETTERS ARE THE FOUNDATION:  He set them in a 
     cycle like a kind of wall with two hundred and thirty-one 
     gates.  And the cycle rotates forward and backward.  And the 
     sign of the thing is:
     -- there is NOTHING in goodness above pleasure, and
     -- there is NOTHING in evil below pain.

[19] 5.  How did He combine them, weigh them and set them at 
     opposites?  Aleph with all of them, and all of them with 
     Aleph; Bet with all of them, and all of them with Bet.  And 
     it rotates in turn, and thus they are in two hundred and 
     thirty-one gates, and thus everything that is formed and 
     everything that is spoken goes out from ONE NAME.

[20] 6.  He formed substance from emptiness, and made what is 
     from NOTHING.  And He hewed out great columns from Air which 
     is not tangible.  And this is the sign:

     He covers and sets at opposites, and He makes everything 
     that is formed and everything that is spoken with ONE NAME.  
     And the sign of the thing is twenty-two countings like one 


[21] 1.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN, their foundation is the 
     scale of merit and the scale of guilt, and the tongue of 
     statute balances the scales between them.

[22] 2.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN -- a great secret, 
     wonderful and concealed, and He seals with six rings.  And 
     from Him go out Fire and Water, dividing into male and 
     female.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN are their 
     foundation, and from them are born Fathers, from which 
     everything is created.


        He engraved them,
        He hewed them out,
        He combined them,
        He weighed them, and
        He set them at opposites, and
        He formed through them:
        THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN in the universe, and
        THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN in the year, and
        THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN in the body of male and 

[24] 4.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN are in the universe: Air, 
     Water, and Fire.

     Heavens were created first from Fire, and Earth was created 
     from Water, and the Air balances the scales between the Fire 
     and between the Water.

[26] 5.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN are in the year:

        Fire and Water and Air, and
        Heat was created from Fire,
        Cold was created from Water, and
        Temperate-state from Air balances the scales between them.

[27] 6.  THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN are in the body of male 
     and female:

        Fire and Water and Air.
        Head was created from Fire, and
        Belly was created from Water, and
        Geviyah^3^ was created from Air, balancing the scales 
        between them.

[28] 7.  He caused the letter Aleph to reign over Air, and

        He tied a crown^4^ to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them:

           Air in the universe, and the
           Temperate-state in the year, and the
           Geviyah in the body of male with Aleph, Mem, Shin; and 
           female with Aleph, Shin, Mem.

[29] 8.  He caused the letter Mem to reign over Water, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them:

           Earth in the universe, and
           Cold in the year, and the
           Belly in the body of male with Mem, Aleph, Shin;
           and female with Mem, Shin, Aleph.

[30] 9.  He caused the letter Shin to reign over Fire, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them:

           Heavens in the universe, and
           Heat in the year, and
           Head in the body of male with Shin, Aleph, Mem;
           and female with Shin, Mem, Aleph.


     TAV behave with two sounds: BHET BET, GHIMEL GIMEL. DHALET 
     construction of soft and hard, strong and weak.

     TAV, their foundation is Life, Peace, Wisdom, Wealth, Grace, 
     Seed, and Dominion.

     TAV are such in speech and as opposites:

        The opposite of Life is Death,
        The opposite of Peace is Evil,
        The opposite of Wisdom is Folly,
        The opposite of Wealth is Poverty,
        The opposite of Grace is Ugliness,
        The opposite of Seed is Desolation,
        The opposition of Dominion is Slavery.

     TAV are opposite seven extremities, from them six 

        ABOVE and BELOW,
        EAST and WEST,
        NORTH and SOUTH

     and The Holy Temple is set in the middle and it supports all 
     of them.

     TAV seven and not six, seven and not eight, test them and 
     explore them, and understand the matter thoroughly, and 
     restore the Creator^5^ to His place.

     TAV are the foundation.

        He engraved them,
        He hewed them out,
        He combined them,
        He weighed them, and
        He set them at opposites, and
        He formed through them:
           Seven Stars in the universe,
           Seven Days in the year,
           Seven Gates in the body of male and female.

     And from them He engraved seven heavens, and seven earths, 
     and seven Sabbaths.  Therefore He cherished the seventh 
     under all heavens.

[37] 7.  And these are the SEVEN STARS in the universe: Sun, 
     Venus, Mercury, Moon, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.

     And these are the SEVEN DAYS in the year: the seven days of 
     creation.^6^  And SEVEN GATES in the body of male and female: 
     two eyes, two ears, and the mouth, and the two apertures of 
     the nose.

     And through them He engraved seven heavens, and seven 
     earths, and seven hours, therefore He cherished the seventh 
     of every object under the heavens.

[38] 8.  He caused the letter Bet to reign over Life, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them, Saturn in the universe, the first 
        day in the year, and the right eye in the body of male 
        and female.

     -- He caused the letter Gimel to reign over Peace, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them, Jupiter in the universe, the 
        second day in the year, and the left eye in the body of 
        male and female.

     -- He caused the letter Dalet to reign over Wisdom, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them, Mars in the universe, the third 
        day in the year, and the right ear in the body of male 
        and female.

     -- He caused the letter Kaf to reign over Wealth, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them, Sun in the universe, the fourth 
        day in the year, and the left ear in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Pey to reign over Grace, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them, Venus in the universe, the fifth 
        day in the year, and the right nostril in the body of 
        male and female.

     -- He caused the letter Resh to reign over Seed, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them, Mercury in the universe, the 
        sixth day in the year, and the left nostril in the body 
        of male and female.

     -- He caused the letter Tav to reign over Dominion, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them, Moon in the universe, the Sabbath 
        day in the year, and the mouth in the body of male and 

     TAV through which are engraved seven universes, seven 
     heavens, seven earths, seven seas, seven rivers, seven 
     deserts, seven days, even weeks, seven years, seven 
     Sabbatical years, seven jubilees, and The Holy Temple.  
     Therefore He cherished the seventh ones under all the 

[40] 10.  Two stones^7^ build two houses,
     Three stones build six houses,
     Four stones build twenty-four houses,
     Five stones build one hundred and twenty houses,
     Six stones build seven hundred and twenty houses,
     Seven stones build five thousand and twenty houses,

     From here on go out and think what the mouth is unable to 
     speak, and ear is unable to hear.

        2 STONES:

           AB    BA

        3 STONES:

           ABG   AGB
           BAG   BGA
           GAB   GBA

        4 STONES:


        and so forth...



     Hey Vav Zayin, Chet Tet Yod, Lamed Nun Samech, Ayin Tzade Kof

     Their foundation is speech, thought, movement, sight, 
     hearing, work, sexual intercourse, smell, sleep, wrath, 
     taste, laughter.


     Hey Vav Zayin, Chet Tet Yod, Lamed Nun Samech, Ayin Tzade Kof

     Their foundation is the twelve borders of a diagonal:

        East-Above border, East-North border, East-Below border;
        South-Above border, South-East border, South-Below border;
        West-Above border, West-South border, West-Below border;
        North-Above border, North-West border, North-Below border.

     And they continually become wider for ever and ever, and 
     they are the arms of the universe.


     Hey Vav Zayin, Chet Tet Yod, Lamed Nun Samech, Ayin Tzade Kof

        He engraved their foundation,
        He hewed them out,
        He combined them,
        He weighed them, and
        He set them at opposites, and
        He formed through them:

           twelve constellations in the universe,
           twelve months in the year,
           twelve organs in the body of male and female.

[44] 4.  The twelve constellations in the universe are: Aries, 
     Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, 
     Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, Pisces.^8^

[45] 5.  The twelve months in the year are: Nisan, Iyar, Sivan, 
     Tammuz, Av, Elui, Tishri, Cheshvan, Kislev, Tevet, Shevat, 

[46] 6.  The twelve organs in the body of male and female are: 
     two hands, two feet, two kidneys, gall, small intestines, 
     liver, maw, stomach, spleen.

[47] 7.  He caused the letter Hey to reign over speech, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Aries in the universe, and Nisan 
        in the year, and the right foot in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Vav to reign over thought, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Taurus in the universe, and Iyar 
        in the year, and the right kidney in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Zayin to reign over movement, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Gemini in the universe, and Nisan 
        in the year, and the left foot in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Chet to reign over sight, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Cancer in the universe, and Tammuz 
        in the year, and the right hand in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Tet to reign over hearing, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Leo in the universe, and Av in the 
        year, and the left kidney in the body of male and female.

     -- He caused the letter Yod to reign over work, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Virgo in the universe, and Elui in 
        the year, and the left hand in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Lamed to reign over sexual 
     intercourse, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Libra in the universe, and Tishri 
        in the year, and gall in the body of male and female.

     -- He caused the letter Nun to reign over smell, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Scorpio in the universe, and 
        Cheshvan in the year, and the small intestines in the 
        body of male and female.

     -- He caused the letter Samech to reign over sleep, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Sagittarius in the universe, and 
        Kislev in the year, and the stomach in the body of male 
        and female.

     -- He caused the letter Ayin to reign over wrath, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Capricorn in the universe, and 
        Tevet in the year, and the liver in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Tzade to reign over taste, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Aquarius in the universe, and 
        Shevat in the year, and the maw in the body of male and 

     -- He caused the letter Kof to reign over laughter, and

        He tied a crown to it, and
        He combined them with one another, and
        He formed through them Pisces in the universe, and Adar 
        in the year, and the spleen in the body of male and 
     He made them like a kind of sunset,
     He put them in order like a kind of wall,
     He set them in order like a kind of battle.


[48] 1.  THESE ARE THREE MOTHERS ALEPH, MEM, SHIN  and there went 
     out from them three Fathers; and they are Air, Water, Fire; 
     and from the Fathers are descendants, three Fathers and 
     their descendants, and Seven Stars and their hosts, and 
     twelve borders of a diagonal.  As proof of the thing are 
     faithful witnesses in the universe, year, body, and twelve 
     statutes, and seven, and three.  He assigned them in the 
     axis, and cycle, and heart.

     Fire; Fire above and Water below; and Air of Spirit, statute 
     balancing the scales between them.  And this is the sign of 
     the thing: the Fire lifts the Water.  The MEM stands still, 
     the SHIN hisses, the ALEPH is Air of Spirit, statute 
     balancing the scales between them.

[50] 3.  The axis is in the universe like a King on His Throne, 
     the cycle is in the year like a King in the province, the 
     heart is in the body like a King in battle.

[51] 4.  Also ELOHIM made every object, one opposite the other: 
     good opposite evil, evil opposite good, good from good, evil 
     from evil. The good delineates the evil and the evil 
     delineates the good, good is kept for the good and evil is 
     kept for the evil.

[52] 5.  THREE: each one stands by itself, one acquits, and one 
     condemns, and one balances the scales between them.

     SEVEN: three opposite three and one is statute balancing the 
     scales between them.

     TWELVE: stand in battle, three love, three hate, three 
     preserve alive, and three kill.

        Three love: the heart and the ears.
        Three hate: the liver, and the gall, and the tongue.
        Three preserve alive: The two apertures of the nose
        and the spleen.
        Three kill: the two orifices and the mouth.

     And EL, the faithful King, rules over all of them from His 
     holy Dwelling-Place unto Eternity.

     ONE is above three, three above seven, seven above twelve, 
     and all of them connected with each other.

[53] 6.  These are twenty-two letters through which EHYEH, YH, 
     YHVH, ELOHIM, ELOHIM, YHVH, YHVH of Hosts, ELOHIM of Hosts, 
     EL SHADDAI, YHVH, Lord, engraved; and made from them three 
     signs, and created from them all His universe, and He formed 
     through them everything that is formed, and everything that 
     is destined to be formed.

[54] 7.  When Abraham our father, may he rest in peace, came: he

        looked, and
        saw, and
        understood, and
        explored, and
        engraved, and
        hewed out, and

     The Lord of All was revealed to him, and

        He set him in His Bosom, and
        He kissed him on his head, and
        He called him "Abraham, my beloved"^9^, and
        He cut a covenant with him and with his seed forever, as 
        it is said "And he believed in YHVH, and 
        He considered it to him for righteousness"^10^, and
        He cut a covenant with him between the ten fingers of his 
        hands, and that is the covenant of the tongue, and 
        between the ten toes of his feet, and that is the 
        covenant of the circumcision, and
        He tied the twenty-two letters of the Torah^11^ in his 
        He revealed to him His secret:
        He drew them through Water,
        He burned them in Fire,
        He shook them through the Air,
        He kindled them in the Seven,
        He led them through the twelve constellations.

                  End of the Book of Formation



    ^1^  Ezekiel 1:14.
    ^2^  Psalms 104:4.
    ^3^  Subtle body, Sanskrit: Linga Sharira.
    ^4^  Oriental letters are made holy (Atsilotic) by addition 
    of the crown of anusvara.
    ^5^  He Who Forms.
    ^6^  Barashith.
    ^7^  Letters.
    ^8^  The correspondence of these Constellations with the 
    months in Mishnah 5 occurred during the time of Abraham 4000 
    years ago.  At this time 5731 the Sun is 58' further to the 
    West and stands in Leo during Tishri, due to the Precession 
    of the Equinoxes.
    ^9^  Isaiah 41:8.
    ^10^  It Created Six 15:6.
    ^11^  Five Books of Moses.

"The Medical Knowledge of Shakspeare"

(From _The Lancet_, July 7, 1860: Reviews and Notices of Books)

Review of: 

     The Medical Knowledge of Shakspeare. 
     by John Charles Bucknill, M.D.  
     8vo, pp. 292.  London: Longman & Co.

[1]  This new work of Dr. Bucknill appears to have been suggested 
     by the book which Lord Campbell last year published on 
     Shakspeare's legal acquirements; and although the author 
     explicitly disavows any intention to put forward rival 
     claims in behalf of the medical profession for the honour of 
     having occupied that seven years of Shakspeare's early 
     manhood of which not the slightest biographical trace 
     remains, yet he does come forward in some degree as the 
     advocate of his profession.  He confesses "that it would be 
     gratifying to his professional self-esteem if he were able 
     to show that the immortal dramatist, who bears, as Hallam 
     says, 'the greatest name in all literature,' paid an amount 
     of attention to subjects of medical interest scarcely if at 
     all inferior to that which has served as the basis of the 
     learned and ingenious argument that this intellectual king 
     of men had devoted seven good years of his life to the 
     practice of the law."  Dr. Bucknill argues that although the 
     frequent and appropriate use of technical expressions -- the 
     trade-marks of the mind -- can only be accounted for by 
     their having been stamped upon the memory by some pressure 
     more urgent than casual and general conversation, it must be 
     remembered that the facility of using these expressions has 
     often been acquired by poets for the purpose of their art; 
     and that, moreover, these signs of peculiar mental training 
     would have had less value in the olden time, as a mark of a 
     man's profession, than at present, when every calling is so 
     defined.  From the indications afforded by the use of 
     professional technicalities, the author passes to the less 
     obvious but less deceptive one to be found in the existence 
     of a professional habit of mind; and he compares the 
     influence of these habits as they affect the professions of 
     Law and Medicine with that of Shakspeare's mental character, 
     and arrives at the conclusion that no professional warp of 
     mind can be detected.  But while he thus concludes that 
     Shakspeare had never been formally connected with either of 
     the learned professions, he yet believes that he had been a 
     diligent student of both.  "Speaking on my own subject of 
     investigation, I refer to the cumulative evidence collected 
     in the foregoing pages as unanswerable proof that his mind 
     was deeply imbued with the best medical information of his 
     age."  This passage affords a key to a great part of the 
     value of Dr. Bucknill's work, which consists not only in an 
     investigation of the medical knowledge of his author, but in 
     a careful examination of the best medical information of the 
     age in which this author lived; so that the work before us, 
     full of antiquarian research on this special point of 
     inquiry, gives us a very interesting account of medicine in 
     the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.  In the Introduction, 
     of fifty-six pages, this inquiry is directed rather to the 
     social and legal state of the profession; to the great 
     powers of the new College of Physicians, maintaining their 
     rights even against Walsingham and Queen Elizabeth; to the 
     arbitrary manner in which they upheld the Galenical 
     doctrines against the heterodoxy of those who adopted the 
     chemical doctrines of Paracelsus; to the spicy vituperation 
     of the College contained in Dr. Gideon Harvey's works; and 
     to some account of the physician who married Shakspeare's 
     eldest daughter -- a provincial physician of great repute, 
     in whose family circle it is probable that Shakspeare passed 
     the latter period of his life, and from whose society he may 
     have derived some portion of his medical knowledge.

[2]  Our limits will not permit us to give any adequate account 
     of the mass of medical references which Dr. Bucknill has 
     accumulated from the plays, every one which, with the 
     exception of the doubtful play of "Titus Andronicus," 
     contains several.  These references, which are merely used 
     for the purpose of illustrating general subjects, of are 
     woven into the tissue of common dialogue, indicate, by their 
     number, extent, and variety of reference, the medical turn 
     of thought of the great man's mind.  It must be remembered 
     that he nowhere professed to write on any medical subject; 
     and that, as well-bred men avoid talking what is called 
     "shop," so his knowledge nowhere appears to be displayed: it 
     oozes out naturally under the pressure of the dialogue, and 
     the whole extent of his lore on any one medical subject can 
     only ne inferred by collecting the several references made 
     to it in the various plays.

[3]  Dr. Bucknill would, doubtless, have added to the value of 
     his work if he had systematically done this for his readers.  
     The plan he has adopted has been to examine each play 
     %seratim%; and, perhaps, upon no other plan would the 
     inquiry have been so fully and fairly made, especially as in 
     many places he marks passages illustrating each other; but 
     still the reader would require to study the whole of the 
     work before he could ascertain the extent of Shakspeare's 
     information on any one topic.

[4]  Let us take as an example the question as to what 
     Shakspeare's opinions were respecting the functions of the 
     heart and of the bloodvessels. In the Shakspeare Society's 
     Papers is an article attempting to show that, although he 
     died before Harvey had given the earliest notice of his 
     opinions, yet it was probable that Shakspeare was the 
     personal friend of the great anatomist, and had these 
     opinions privately communicated to him, and had expressed 
     them in the lines in "Julius Caesar": --

        "Thou art as dear to me as are the ruddy drops
        That visit my sad heart."

[5]  Now Dr. Bucknill declares his opinion that, although there 
     are many passages in the plays in which the presence of the 
     blood in the heart is more pointedly indicated than in the 
     above, yet "there is not a trace of any knowledge of the 
     circulation of the blood. ...  The flow of blood to the 
     heart was a fact well known and recognised in Shakspeare's 
     time.  It was the flow of blood from the heart, and round 
     again in a circle of the heart, -- that is, the 
     %circulation% of the blood, -- which was not known to 
     Shakspeare of to any other person before Harvey's immortal 
     discovery."  Shakspeare entertained the opinion, universally 
     received at that time, that the function of the arteries was 
     to contain the vital spirits and transmit them to different 
     parts of the body.  Thus he speaks of

        "The nimble spirits in the arteries." Love's Labour Lost.

     And one of the physiological effects of "good sherris sack" 
     was, according to %Falstaff%, that

        "The vital commoners and inland petty spirits,
        Muster me all to their captain, the heart."

     (See the author's disquisition on the whole of this 
     remarkable passage, page 155.)  But the heart contains 
     blood, and is often oppressed with its load.  Thus in 
     "Measure for Measure" --

        "Why does my blood thus muster to my heart?" &c.

     And again, in %Warwick's% description of the signs of 
     violent death, he attributes the absence of blood in the 
     face of a person dying of natural disease to its 
     accumulating at the heart; the blood, he says,

        "Being all descended to the labouring heart,
        Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,
        Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy,
        Which with the heart there cools, and ne'er returneth
        To blush and beautify the cheek again:
        But see, his face is black and full of blood."

     In Shakspeare's version of the fable of the belly and the 
     members, he makes the former say of the food it receives --

        "I send it through the rivers of your blood,
        Even to the court, the heart, the seat of the brain,
        And thro' the cranks and offices of man,
        The strongest nerves and small interior veins," &c.

     The flow of the blood to the heart, and its existence in the 
     heart therefore, were facts fully accepted be Shakspeare; 
     but the blood was considered to be contained in the veins, 
     not in the arteries, and its flow supposed to be caused by 
     the liver, not the heart.

[6]  In the description of Lucrece's suicide, the colour of the 
     two different kinds of blood is referred to, and the 
     separation of serum from the clot is described --

        "About the mourning and congealed face
        Of that black blood a watery eigol goes."

     The cause assigned for this is, that the blood is corrupted--

        "Corrupted blood some watery token shews."

     It is a curious circumstance that in this opinion, erroneous 
     as we now know it to be, the great physiologist agreed with 
     the dramatist --

        "These parts (that is coagulum and serum) have no 
        existence severally in living blood; it is in that only 
        which has become corrupted, and is resolved by death, 
        that they are encountered." (Harvey on Generation.)

[7]  The prevalent diseases of the time would be those to which 
     Shakspeare would naturally refer; the most prominent appear 
     to have been ague and pestilence; disorders of the stomach 
     (massed under the general name of surfeits), nervous 
     diseases, epilepsy, apoplexy, and "hysterica passio," are 
     likewise largely referred to.  Venereal disease is also a 
     frequent subject of the author's comment -- grave or gay.  
     It was to some extent a novelty of his time; it prevailed 
     widely, and necessarily attracted great attention.  One of 
     the most remarkable of Shakspeare's medical descriptions is 
     that of the secondary symptoms of syphilis, as they are 
     detailed by %Timon%, of Athens, when he is pouring treasure 
     into the laps of the courtesans: --

        "Timon. Consumptions sow
        In hollow bones of men: strike their sharp shins,
        And mar men's spurring.  Crack the lawyer's voice,
        That he may never more false title plead,
        Nor sound his quillets shrilly.  Hoar the flamen
        That scolds against the quality of flesh,
        And not believes himself.  Down with the nose,
        Down with it flat: take the bridge quite away
        Of him, that his particular to foresee,
        Smells from the general weal: make curl'd-pate ruffians 
        And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war
        Derive some pain from you.  Plague all,
        That your activity may defeat and quell
        The source of all erection.  There's more gold;
        And ditches grave you all!"

[8]  Dr. Bucknill compares this enumeration with Brasser's 
     contemporary description of syphilis, which Hamilton, in his 
     "History of Medicine," says is the most complete account of 
     the disease to be found in any author of the period; and he 
     shows that the representation of the dramatist is superior 
     in accuracy to that of the physician.  The work before us 
     contains some curious results of research on the treatment 
     of this disease, as it is described by Shakspeare, by 
     "powdering tub of infamy," by tubs and bottles, and by 
     sweating medicines.

[9]  We trust we have said enough to send our readers to the book 
     itself, which they will be unable to read without greatly 
     increasing their knowledge of the works of the immortal 
     dramatist, and that, too, in a direction which to numbers of 
     our profession will be most interesting and instructive; but 
     they will also find a large amount of curious and valuable 
     research into the early history of the medical profession in 
     this country, and into the social state of the medical 
     profession in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.  Dr. 
     Bucknill complains that no medical history exists which 
     gives this information; that medical historians copy from 
     each other; that, generally speaking, they satisfy 
     themselves with describing the progress of knowledge, and 
     that they do not set forth the state of medical opinion and 
     practice existing at the different periods of their history.  
     This, perhaps, is inevitable.  The future historian of the 
     present age will, no doubt, describe the discoveries of Sir 
     Charles Bell, Marshall Hall, and Brown-Sequard; but it is 
     not probable that he will trouble his readers to any great 
     extent with descriptions of the rise and fall of the great 
     homoeopathic and mesmeric humbug of the day, or even with 
     questions of real but transitory medical interest, as the 
     old lancet treatment of all diseases, which has now died 
     off, or the abuse of brandy treatment, which appears to be 
     coming on,  Yet questions of this kind mark the actual state 
     of medical opinion more truthfully than the slow but sure 
     progress of science.  Dr. Bucknill has endeavoured to 
     rehabilitate the state of medicine in the time of 
     Shakspeare, by referring to original authorities who 
     describe its grotesque errors and dark ignorance, as well as 
     those who trace its progress towards the fuller knowledge in 
     which we live.

[10] Dr. Bucknill's work is one which will be read by the scholar 
     and the physician with peculiar interest.  The chapter 
     treating of the state of the profession at the time of 
     Shakspeare furnishes the most complete account we have ever 
     seen on the subject.  We cordially recommend the perusal of 
     "The Medical Knowledge of Shakspeare" to our readers.



1    Date: Thu, 31 Aug 1995 00:35:46 -0400 (EDT)
     From: john fowler 
     Subject: Servers/webs (fwd)
     To: Jukka Lehmus 
     Jukka --
     What do you think of the concept of a "workshop" site with 5 
     or 6 members working together in the site.  It's a WWW 
     spin-off of some of the ideas we've discussed in the past.
     Forwarded message ---------- 
     Date: Thu, 31 Aug 1995 00:26:10 -0400 (EDT)
     From: john fowler 
     Subject: Servers/webs
     To: Fabio Doctorovich 
     Look forward to the review of your book you're sending.
     I can appreicate your concern for some kind of financial 
     return on your work.  I too have that concern but haven't 
     figured out how to get it yet.  It all boils down to finding 
     a way to _withhold_ one's work and only _give it up_ in 
     exchange for money (or barter for other things).  My spirit 
     has a hard time with the "withholding" part.  Who can say 
     who owns what?  It all comes from the ultimate source and 
     there are those lucky enough to be transmitters; but 
     ownership?  How/when can we break out of that vicious 
     circle?  The WWW seems to offer a way.
     Seems like you have found a real resource in the service you 
     mention.  Hopefully it will fulfill it's promise and is the 
     kind of service I'm talking about but obviously don't have 
     the resource to set up.  
     The question of contiguous physical location versus linked 
     webs is one that will preoccupy all of us for a few years I 
     imagine.  Independently linked webs are obviously one way to 
     allow folks who want to "own" their own sites and present 
     their work under their own control.
     But I'm trying to find my way to a _collaborative_ site 
     where participants all have programming access and all the 
     work put there is available to all for hypertexting, adding 
     to, manipulating, attaching images to, attaching audio, 
     video, animation.  A workshop site where people come to work 
     on/within the site.  An interactive, on-going, _process_ of 
     exploration and creation.
     I'm beginning to see a small, relatively "private" site with 
     a limited set of "members" who have access and 
     programming/participation "rights".  As "works" or "pieces" 
     develop and spin off/out they could "published" on members' 
     own sites or other public sites like GOL and others.
     In such a situation the concern for speed, "marketing" to 
     user/readers, gaining income from that workshop effort, and 
     24 accessibility might not be such great concerns.
     For instance, a person could log in during the "open" 
     period, pick off what they might want to "work on" off-line 
     and then come back another day and put the results of the 
     work off-line back in the "pot"--only to find that someone 
     had done the same thing with for instance, all or some part 
     of what they had just been involved with.
     With only five or six "members" there would already be the 
     potential for so many variations and devlopments and 
     techniques and interactions that the results would be 
     undoubtedly be wonderful in their variety and beauty.
     Of course, it would be nice to do this using the best 
     equipment possible.
     And certainly, I'm not anxious to assume the operation of a 
     technically challenging day-to-day 24 hours a day headache.
     Perhaps your idea of co-operative leasing space on the 
     service you suggest would be a way to do it.
     Let's keep discussing this, and see what we come up with.
     I'm going to copy jlehmus on this, since I asked him similar 
     questions when I wrote to you.
     more later,
2    Date: Thu, 31 Aug 1995 18:18:37 -0400 (EDT)
     From: john fowler 
     Subject: Re: your mail
     To: Fabio Doctorovich 
     Cc:, Karl Young ,
        Robert Bove , Jukka Lehmus 
     Thanks for your reply; I appreciate your time and thoughts.
     I think your points and goals are valid; I'm just not sure 
     how they can be achieved.  Poetry seems to have no exchange 
     value.  Thus poets in Argentina, and the U.S. as well, are 
     self-publishers.  Or, in the past in the U.S. have been 
     heavily supported by government grants.  This source of 
     funding is rapidly disappearing, as we know, and there are 
     those who have chosen not to participate in the government 
     funding programs on principle.
     We would all hope to make a living from our work, no doubt 
     about it.  Very few poets do; very few artists do--anywhere 
     in the world.
     The WWW makes it less expensive for eveyone to publish.  And 
     its ecologically more responsible.
     But the question becomes, "Who are we publishing for?" and 
     "Will they help us continue to produce work by making a 
     contribution toward our living and creative/operating 
     I don't think the income of poets is so low because their 
     their books are too expensive.  I think the income of poets 
     is so low because not many people are interested in poetry.
     Other than other poets.  Here in NYC I go to poetry readings 
     and its all poets reading to each other.  No non-poets to 
     speak of at all.
     Poets buy the books of other poets, poets review the books 
     of other poets and poets read the books of other poets.
     At the readings, poets put a contribution in the hat that's 
     It all poets helping and supporting other poets--i.e., each 
     Commercial publishers make no money off poetry and never 
     have.  The self-publishing tradition for poets goes back 
     throughout the history of the world.  Blink Homer singing 
     his songs on street corners with a cup out front for 
     The idea that anyone can make a even their expenses back on 
     a poetry book has been unlikely for centuries.
     So you do things like publishe your book for $2300.
     What the WWW allows and encourages is for you to publish 
     that book for much less--$20 or whatever extrememly small 
     fraction of that.
     (I notice that you didn't factor in your time in 
     writing/creating the book/text.  We poets are used to 
     donating our time.  We don't think of it as an expense.  
     Only the artifact on paper has a cost associated with it!)
     But, my point is that it doesn't matter how inexpensive the 
     final product is because very few people are interested in 
     owning it in the first place.
     The WWW, therefore, has compounded the problem for poets and 
     artists by making the _production_ of artifacts so 
     inexpensive, relative to older technologies, that it is 
     difficult to attach any cost to it all.
     Which forces the poet/producer to ask for remuneration for 
     his _time_ and his _creativity_!  (as opposed to saying the 
     paper cost this much, the printer cost this much etc.)
     What does it cost to produce a book?  A lifetime of 
     dedicated effort, blood, sweat and tears; suffering, 
     hallucinations, pain, etc, etc, that's what it _costs_.  How 
     do you charge for that?
     But I go on too long.
     The "bottom line" is that there is no bottom line/profit for 
     poets because there is no _demand_ for poetry except from 
     the small group of fellow poets.
     Now we can all be connected world-wide as never before; now 
     we can exchange works as never before; now we can create in 
     new and different ways.
     But the WWW does not increase the "market" for poetry, it 
     only expands the existing market to wider numbers of fellow 
     poets.  The next person that reads a poetry book on or 
     off-line will be a _poet_.  Not a customer.
     That leads me to think of more poets cooperating with, 
     interacting with and mutually supporting one another.  
     If you try to charge for your work on the the Web the people 
     you'll be charging are your fellow poets!
     Why not work together to cooperatively fund and create and 
     expand the poetry underground/spiritual/network and take 
     advantage of the fact that we have a fantastically less 
     expensive publishing medium under our direct control for the 
     first time in history!
     Rather than remaining in the trap of trying to create 
     sturctures of exchange that don't work.
3    Date: 10 Oct 95 11:41:45 EDT
     From: Cathryn.L.Welch@Dartmouth.EDU (Cathryn L. Welch)
     Subject:  GLOSSOLALIA
     My own preferences for long or short ezines are dictated by 
     my own time crunch - I just can't put out so much info, and 
     I prefer to pick a very focusedsubject for interaction.
     People like myself, and I suspect many other online artists, 
     don't have a lotof time to download large pieces of info. 
     It's expensive in two major ways - phone bills and paper 
     usage. There's a  very large online poetry, networking zine 
     that I like, but shudder every time I print out an issue - I 
     swear I use up half a ream of paper.
     For technical reasons alone, I would limit all content to a 
     managable load no larger than 33K. And yes, that might mean 
     you'd want to publish bi-weekly - twice a month. Even that 
     load is much more than I could or would ever want to handle. 
     But you must have the time and certainly you aren't trying 
     to raise one year old triplets as I am.
     Chuck Welch
4    Date: Fri, 20 Oct 1995 11:23:57 PST
     From: "Tom Taylor" 
     Organization: PSU Cramer Hall
     Subject: Re: JL & Berry seek
     To: Jukka Lehmus 
     v interested also in yr inclusion of materials beyond our 
     century (in either direction) eg shakespeare et al, 
     interested in any use or reference from post modern post 
     standpoint/as to what to keep how to treat how to make use 
     of old, ancient materials, not to hash or make fun of but of 
     what use or reference of any sort to make to our heritage or 
     past when it so alarmingly bears so little if any at all 
     upon present circumstances, globally.......  of any use made 
     of ancient materials, by reference or inclusion in works
     interested also in any contemporary japanese writing which 
     is near our set and setting upon what we are doing here, 
     after language and all the modernist deluges begin to recede 
     from us are they still doing hai ku?
     all best
5    Date: Tue, 24 Oct 1995 08:33:21 PST
     From: "Tom Taylor" 
     Organization:  PSU Cramer Hall
     Subject: anabasis
     This invitation needs some discussion and distribution 
     beyond the addressees.
     many thanks
     October 24, 1995
     Dear Peter~
     Of course.  I'm delighted to put Splint up in my anabasis 
     web space.  and thank you for prompting me to some action in 
     this direction.  I think this in general is how I want to 
     work it.
     I don't view putting this up in my space as publishing but 
     sharing.  after all, no effort on my part has taken place 
     for which I wd need to be compensated, i've simply made a 
     choice.  you in this case have done all the work, the 
     writing, the typing.  a
     I view my webspace as a cooperative venture, at the least 
     only managed on my part.  I think that once you have space 
     there, you have the right to change what's in it from time 
     to time and to receive messages through your/my address, but 
     Fowler will hav
     I want also to cc this letter to the following and invite 
     them as well to participate in my anabsis webspace.
     vincent ferrini
     jake berry
     jim leftwich
     susan smith nash
     john fowler
6    Date: Mon, 6 Nov 1995 09:24:09 -0500 (EST)
     From: Robert Bove 
     To: john fowler 
     Cc: Fabio Doctorovich ,
        Karl Young , Jukka Lehmus 
     Subject: Re: communication creates conflict (fwd)
     On Sat, 28 Oct 1995, john fowler wrote:
     > ---------- Forwarded message ----------
     > Date: Fri, 27 Oct 1995 01:33:08 +0900
     > From: cybercafe 
     > To: cybercafe 
     > Subject: communication creates conflict
     > cybercafe & NTT intercommunications present
     > communication creates conflict
     > peace and harmony vs destraction to destruction
     > language from - mortality inspired fear
     > creates desire for - unification via language
     > 'it good to talk' say british telecom
     > bit is futile as peace is expressionless
     > attempted expression is conflict
     > crypto conservative desire for breach of borders
     > (penetration, internal disruption, anarchy, pain, humour)
     > to relieve public embarasment of paradox; 
     > for enhancement of self perception; 
     > self define by external; 
     > to relieve denied domination of 
     > but the language rationale fights back until destruction 
     through complexity/contradiction; paradox attack; energy 
     > what can we do ?
     I'm not sure that shattered philosophy re-structured as 
     blank verse is the way to go.  When I see such things, I am 
     forced to agree that humor is in short supply these days.  
     And I think this writer would do well to see what others 
     have said about where language comes from, how it's 
     transmitted, when and where, specifically.  A lot of his 
     confusion might be cleared up.  When learn first at our 
     mother's breast--sucking sounds mingling with erotic cooing, 
     snatches of sentences, songs, non-sense syllables strung 
     together, passing time.  This writer is worried about the 
     language we learn at school, that which helps us function at 
     the myriad desks of bureaucracy.  As well he should.  Remain 
     skeptical of new languages; keep the ear tuned to the Mother 
     Tongue.  Spend some time at a petting zoo before attempting 
     this fucking zoo.
     Also, are we supposed to pity the asker of these questions?  
     He's stumbling on sidewalk cracks, and that's ok.  But what 
     is not ok is that it seems to be an invitation to 
     sentimentality, the enemy of empathy.  Besides, it's way too 
     abstract, too unsupported to provide a very satisfying meal.
     Worry is definitely not the wellspring of art, this message 
     from Tokyo being a flight from art into ordinary frustration 
     with the Grand Administrator and his linguistic minions.  
     Just sign the damned papers & try for ecstasy once in awhile.
     Robert Bove   (


    ART UNIDENTIFIED #134. September 18, 1995.
    London Psychogeographical Association Newsletter #10. 1995.
    Lost And Found Times #35. 1995.
    Re:Action - Newsletter of the Neoist Alliance #2. 1995.
    TRANSFUSION #51. 1995.

Chapbooks and albums
    Marc Alhanati: Intimum, tome 1 (residuels 83-85) + tome 2 
    (residuels 92-93). Images de l'auteur et de Francoise 
    Duvivier. editions Cosmosang, 1995.
    John M. Bennett & Serge Segay: Crayon Picture Book. Luna 
    Bisonte Prods, 1995.
    Hari Burrus: I Do Not Sleep With Strangers: Confessions of a 
    Tennis Pro. Black Tie Press, 1987.
    John Ezra Fowler: Nine Poems on mystical themes. Grist 
    On-Line, 1995.
    Raul Guerra Garrido: Esto no es un ensayo sobre Miró. 
    Prefacio de Salvador Espriu. Girarte 1994 Almansa.
    Antoni Miró: Graphik Retrospektive. 
    Kulturhausgalerie/Schwarzheide, Herbst 1988.
    Clemente Padin: Latinoamerican Mail-Art. 1989.
    Spencer Selby: Malleable Cast (series number one). Generator 
    Press, 1995.
    Spencer Selby: No Island. Drogue Press, 1995.

Book art, original editions

    Anne-Miek Bibbe: Tijdnood.
    Patricia Collins: Text/Fossil/Text (Grace Abounding). 1995.
    Marilyn Dammann: Transformation. Photocopied collages and a 
    few words by shadow.
    La Piedra Lunar #7. Corpa, 1995.
    Multipostais #7. Paulo Bruscky, 1995.
    Pintalo de Verde #84. Antonio Gomez, 1995.
    PIPS #2/95: Walter Serner Box. Claudia Puetz, Pips Dada 
    Corporation, 1995.
    USSR 1049 - ORANGE edition #1. Watson Press, 1995.
    Hartmut Andryczuk: "Brieffreudinnen & Brieffreunde - 
    Kollaborationsarbeiten", Experimentelle Literatur & Kunst. 
    Studio im Hochhaus, 1995.
    The Beauty in Breathing: Selections from The Ruth and Marvin 
    Sackner Archive of Concrete and Visual Poetry. American Lung 
    Association / American Thoracic Society International 
    Conference Miami Beach Convention Center, 1992.
    Here To Go Mail Art Project, 1995.
    Mail-Art-Action "Windows".
    Mail Artist's Tarot. Ouroboros, 1995.
    Balboa, Galeria DEXA. Panama, Rep. de Panama, 1995.
    Thelematic Underground: Audiovisual Mailart Tribute To 
    Kenneth Anger. Screened at the Rio Cinema, June 1995. (Field 
    Study Project)
    Verbal Hothouse: Symbols to Stories. The Centre Gallery, 
    Miami-Dade Community College, Wolfson Campus. Selected works 
    from the Ruth and Marvin Sackner Archive of Concrete and 
    Visual Poetry. 1994.

    FINE ART FORUM Volume 9, #10 & #11. (





     Objectives for a NETWORKER TELENETLINK YEAR in 1995 are open 
     for continued discussion in 1995 and beyond.  
     Possibilities??? Embrace the telematic medium and explore 
     its parameters, develop a local-global community, exchange 
     cultural communications, interconnect the parallel network 
     worlds of mail art and telematic art through INTERNET, the 
     World Wide Web, Compuserve, America Online, Bitnet, and 
     other connected e-mail gateways, place networker archives 
     on-line, experiment with telematic technology, participate 
     as a FAXcilitator, exhibit, interact in public and private 
     forums, merge media: mail and email, and enact networker 
     ideals envisioned for the millennium. 


     CRACKERJACK KID, PO BOX 370 Etna, NH 03750


2    From: cybercafe 

     cybercafe & NTT intercommunications present
     communication creates conflict

     peace and harmony vs destraction to destruction
     language from - mortality inspired fear
     creates desire for - unification via language
     'it good to talk' say british telecom
     bit is futile as peace is expressionless
     attempted expression is conflict

     crypto conservative desire for breach of borders
     (penetration, internal disruption, anarchy, pain, humour)
     to relieve public embarasment of paradox; 
     for enhancement of self perception; 
     self define by external; 
     to relieve denied domination of objective/language/structure

     but the language rationale fights back until destruction 
     through complexity/contradiction; paradox attack; energy 

     what can we do ?


3    From:
     Subject: MAIL ART PROJECT

     on January 1996 we remember the greatest artist Joseph Beyus 
     with a Mail Art exibition, conference and other 
     interventations on him and his activity.
     The same show wil be itinerant in other contry of Italy.
     If is possible we make a catalog of works with TERZOOCCHIO 
     Italian Art Magazine.
     The submission is not necessary.
     Please inform other Mail Artists in your Country about this 
     International Mail Art Project and circulate this IDEA.

     *** HOMAGE A JOSEPH BEUYS 1986 - 1996 *** 
                    decade of dead 
     The show will be from January 16th to January 31th, 1996.
     Deadline: January 15, 1995. 
     Medium:  Free 
     Size:  Post-Card
     Documentation to all partecipants.
     No return works. 
     Sends yours works ONLY by snail mail to:
     Umberto Principi 
     P.O.Box 211 
     63017 Porto San Giorgio (AP)

     Many thanks,



4    From: (Jas W. Felter)
     Subject: New Web Art Site...

     If you haven't already dropped by for a look-see, please do. 
     Your comments greatly appreciated.  Homepage is always being 
     worked on, be sure to click on International Directory of 
     Artistamp Creators -  


     - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
     2707 Rosebery Avenue
     West Vancouver, B.C.
     CANADA   V7V 3A3

     (604) 926-3917

     *  *  *  *
     Surf by Jas Cyberspace 



     Xerox collages artworks.

     Giordano Genghini, via Castello 3, 20052 Monza (Milano), 


6    From:

     Fluxus has:

     no money
     an idea of art
     in the everyday
     a sense of play

     A new sticker by the Sticker Dude, Ragged Edge Press, 102 
     Fulton St. NY, NY 10038. Send a Stamped Self addressed 
     Envelope for free samples, mention Fluxus.


7    Erste Eschatologische Internationale

     Theme: "Eschatologie" means the science from the last 
     things.  It must not always indicate/associate death or 
     global catastrophes.  When something/everything will end, 
     something/everything will begin new.  Everybody will be a 
     part of transformation.  Tell me, what do you think about 
     your last moments (as an artist or writer) or your wishes 
     about your eternal (net)work.

     Media: free.  All kinds of visual or verbale works.  Please 
     comment your contribution with your personal last words.

     Size: 21 x 39 cm (=A4), but only one work.  Please send your 
     artwork unbounded, because it will be a part of the 

     Exhibition: in late summer or early autumn 1996.

     Place: Studio im Hochhaus, Berlin-Hohenschoenhausen.

     Document: of course to all, maybe (1) in the periodical 
     "interWALL" (edited by Brigitte Graf, director of the 
     studio) or (2) in a special issue of "Teraz Mowie".  All the 
     works will appear in the new unicate-book-project of the 
     Hybriden-Press, "Unikatmaschine, Bd.II".

     Deadline: March, 31/96.

     Hartmut Andryczuk, Erste Eschatologische Internationale, 
     Postlagernd, D-12154 Berlin, Germany


8    From:

     a tiled ceramic intaglio mural!! /:b

     { brad brace }            ~finger for pgp
     The 12hr-ISBN-JPEG Project: continuous hypermodern
     photo-art: &
     Usenet: / alt.culture.beaches  
     -> core.dump:



     Does it exist?  What is it?

     Please send your ideas and _images_ for a future issue of 


     Jake Berry
     Aleksandr Koltsoff
     J. Lehmus
     Thomas Lowe Taylor / anabasis

     [ME: a forming of the mind < ML, L: idea, conception]



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