plume now scratches the screen at

{Wednesday, March 31, 2004}

incertainplume is seriously backlogged.
seeking: a plume plunger.
poetry views unre'd as far as december.
place your disbelief in chronologies.

plumed @ 11:29 PM | 0 comments

plume reads boogcity for nightly news. what do you read?

plumed @ 10:43 PM | 0 comments

pluming@ in new york. . .

Plume in spring, without ripe plumbs.
Plume in new york, fell on featherdown.
Flight 1195, half an hour delay. In preparation for a crash landing hold your head between your knees and shelter it with your arms.
The manual switch functions at the last moment, the latch opens and the airplane lands on all four (wheels).
Dormir dans les dortoirs.
Sharon, friend of a friend…, keeps her door unlocked day and night to allow free passage to a stranger.
David Kirschenbaum, “the tall guy over there, with a backpack, about to leave,” doesn’t know who i am because i hardly look like my emails. Five minutes later, David assumes the planning functions with the efficiency of a ship captain.
In lieu of postpriandial encores, the statue of liberty holding two torches.
If you don’t have one, you are still in the dark ages.
The dark ages.
The torch, edited by Aaron Kiely & inflamed by D. Kirschenbaum (aka, the cherry tree, in bloom), Amy Lipkin, Matvei Yankelevich*, Eileen Myles, Emily Roysdon, and Joni Mitchell.
Eileen Myles was a discovery. Read Eileen in the skies or don’t read at all.
Aaron Kiely plays two musical instruments: guitar (veiled in black when silent) & industrial stapler (silver and black, nude at all times). The stapler is the mouthpiece of the torch and a conversation piece.
The Ukrainian waiter at Veselka doesn’t want a torch.
Perhaps he doesn’t smoke.
Veselka is crowded around ten pea am & for a reason: its rice pudding is sans pareil.
New York City has the best trash in the world.
I have half furnished the room I don’t have.
Edna St. Vincent Millay inhabited the narrowest house in New York. It was as wide as bright arrows, Nathaniel Siegel tells me, it span from here to there, less half that window.
It takes two and a half to spin the cubic wish outside the Astor station.
Will I spoil the wish if I say that it involves fur?
You are walking in Auden’s footsteps in Millay’s footsteps in Whitman’s footsteps in …
Have you thought about that?
- N.S.

Eduardo runs the poetry slam at Mount Sinai School of Medicine.
Medical textbooks are full of poetry, he says.
At the Locating Love conference (CUNY), the paper panels’ common thread is often quixotic and the readings resemble a ball game played by blindfolded children, spun into vertigo, endowed with a ball each, and aiming at a non-existent basket.
Hackman Subdivider fell asleep at the back of the room but woke up in time to hear me speak of René Char’s lamps.
Belladonna is a fantastic creature and her picture can be found in an edition of Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary sitting by the register at Gotham’s.
Déjà-vu by the Washington Square: so faint, I think it refers to the future.
Bicycles on stilts, one-wheelers, roller-blades, bicycles without seats, racing bicycles, tandems, lady’s bicycles, bicycles with baskets, baskets with children in them, with books in them, with baguettes in them, parading down the avenue.
Am St. El
Small Press Fair was
a disappointment.
Susanna Cuyler was an amazing encounter. Look for her Ubiquarian’s Dictionary, Survival Manual. Jane Owen’s: A Pictorial Biography equally caught my eye.
A lot of sewing goes on upstairs, Organ Needles are used and Confection Co. mannequins.
A group of Finns from the Fair to the Bowery.
Have you ever lent your ear to the radiators?
If you give a street musician a dollar in New York, the chances are, when you go broke seven hours later, you’ll run into him again, and he’ll offer you twenty.
Jim Behrlesqued at Zinc. Zinc barbar. What face in your window. Mistake light and left and you'll have sushi.
I did without, but
should you see Ivan from Cuba play on the guitar somewhere underground,
drop a buck into his hat.
". . . is worse than your bite,"
- D.K.

Statue of Liberty looks sexy at midnight.
Ferry queen runs over no speed bumps.
Speed is the modern nomad. Catch him in Chicago in April as he surrealizes the city.
The first elevator shaft was horizontal, he tells me.
And I believe him.
At Strand, Mark Strand was found on the floor.
I refuse to exhaust the pun.
Anyway, it’s all true.
Leather gloves caress each other on the fire hydrant.
Strangely small from this angle.

This blog’s : P r o p e r N a m e s : Anagrams
New York City :: Icy Y-Network
David Kirschenbaum :: Hackman Subdivider
Aaron Kiely :: Oak Inlayer
Eileen Myles :: Enemies Yell
Veselka :: Save Elk
Nathaniel Siegel :: Alienate English
Edna St. Vincent Millay :: Deviancy Installment
Mount Sinai School of Medicine :: Anecdotic Moonfish Limousine**
Locating Love :: Cleaving Tool
René Char :: Écharner
Ambrose Bierce :: A Microbe’s Beer
Devil’s Dictionary :: Silvery Addiction
Washington Square :: Antique Rags Shown
Susanna Cuyler :: Unlace Sunrays
Organ Needles :: Long Serenade
Bowery Poetry Center :: NYC Tee-Bow Repertory
Speedology :: Lodge Poesy
Statue of Liberty :: Statutory Belief
Jim Behrle Show :: Oh, Herb Slew Jim

@pluming, i said, pluming, not plumbing.

*Any relation to Vladimir Yankelevich, the French psychoanalyst?
**Mount Sinai School of Medicine is full of anagrams, potentially unexhaustible: Uncalcified Moonish Emotions is what I found.

plumed @ 8:40 PM | 0 comments


{Tuesday, March 30, 2004}

heraclitus was a new yorker

plumed @ 10:12 PM | 0 comments


{Wednesday, March 24, 2004}

an ounce mint: incertainplume will be flying off towards the east, becoming increasingly wirefree. tuna next week. in the mean time, scroll down the margins, let lynxes enchant you, some great blogs to step in to:
take the rain taxi or a tram spark down the ruby street, or even all the way to the hotel point.
see new stuffings in the belly of ubu or where the buffaloes roam.
get your news at the tympan, read ron silliman precisely at noon, and the ramblings only while you smoke a pipe.
reconcile to the fait accompli when faced with a conundrum.
don't confuse texfiles with textiles.
inhale poetry and don't forget to shampoo your hair.
wear pantaloons when you can, and a jacket if you can't afford a hat.
treat yourself to some free verse and read it word for word.
if you're still here, it might just be a lucky error or the result of an extremely good hand at the bad letter game.
do not shy heaven and all your problems will be solved; else luminate.
if you're passing through chicago, this is where you should be. and this is the vicinity where you might run into me.

plumed @ 9:56 PM | 0 comments

plume wanted to write poems so small that he could slip them through the crack of dawn.

plumed @ 9:53 PM | 0 comments

in his conversations with glass, plume discovered that the lucidity of windows is deceptive at sunset

plumed @ 9:52 PM | 0 comments


{Tuesday, March 23, 2004}

... there were lights that broke the mirrors ...

plumed @ 7:20 PM | 0 comments


{Saturday, March 20, 2004}

Lot's wife turned into a pillar of salt because she continued weeping where there were no more tears.

Lot's wife had no name.

Orpheus looked over his shoulder.

He saw, for the second time, the absence of Eurydice.

What did Lot's wife see? Her own absence?

Lot's wife had no name.
Was it, lost, inscribed, in the fire of Sodom?

Both Lot and Orpheus bargained with fate. Lot was allowed to take refuge in a small town that, at his pleading, would be spared.

Lot's wife chose to look back.
The passivity of Eurydice's disappearance.

The lot unshared.

Eurydice inhabited the obscurity that Orpheus could penetrate only crudely and without knowing it. Death was the name given to what remained without the poem's reach. Eurydice composed her poems out of silence.

Lot's wife desired fire more than she desired life. She despised her husband's petty economies.

Lot convinced himself that his wife gazed back at the city because she forgot to pack her favorite piece of porcelain, the tapestry woven by her sisters, and the letter she kept locked in a box long after the key was thrown into a well.

Lot's wife had a name she kept secret.

Orpheus, perhaps, could never mourn Eurydice because she would always escape his attempts at describing her.

His love was a measure of his ignorance.

Lot's wife saw the violence of angels.

In his dismemberement, Orpheus became the memory of Eurydice.

It wasn't the gaze itself but rather the question of non-recognition.

Only dead could Orpheus acknowledge Eurydice.

Des cendres d'eaux vides.

plumed @ 8:51 PM | 0 comments

plume was examining his face as if it finally belonged to someone else.

plumed @ 8:30 PM | 0 comments

more than of injuries it causes, to remain on the other side of the quotidian order of deception, and to view the acts of another as if the wound were impenetrable.

plumed @ 8:18 PM | 0 comments

a tribute (reboot three times) to george bush, chief poet-in-command:

Make the Pie Higher$
poem composed of quotations by george bush

I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.

Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?

Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?

How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of oppurtunity.

I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.

Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!

$anthologized, apparently, by Richard Thompson from Washington Post.

plumed @ 12:42 PM | .

{Friday, March 19, 2004}

today plume understood the absolute impossibility of umbrellas

plumed @ 10:59 PM | 0 comments

... amidst the din of words, such happiness, to find one that is charged with the silence of awakening...

plumed @ 10:42 PM | 0 comments

... devoted to solitude with extreme fidelity, she has been dispossessed of it and suffered receiving it in turn as something that could be disposed of, at the hands unaccustomed to be contemplated by objects, yet willingly and as if in awareness of a lot accorded only to conjunctions ...

plumed @ 10:17 PM | 0 comments

Microscopic or microcomputing. Check out the organic machine art, particle events, moody fractals, and other wonders by

plumed @ 2:32 AM | 0 comments

Piotr Rotkiewicz reveals the world within a snowflake with his microscopy of the Protozoa.

plumed @ 1:53 AM | 0 comments

plume wrote poems on cigarette rolling papers. the same magnifying glass that translated infinitesimal specks into letters, set fire to the finished work. plume measured his talent by the quality of smoke.

plumed @ 12:48 AM | 0 comments


{Thursday, March 18, 2004}
notes éparses

elle pleurait à deux visages


Je repartis la chaleur parmi mes os. Il en reste que je mets sous ma paupière gauche, l'aile d'un papillon vert.


A poet is perhaps no more than a thief.
His shadow is desire.


Sometimes I like to repeat a simple phrase:
"Là, les gens habitent dans une maison."


the dark happens


Je lève la main: un geste d'allure géologique dont le mouvement ne s'apperçoit que par l'oreille.


What happens to our hands, given?


Here, there are no mirrors.

There are no walls, either. Only years.


Solar anemones remember the path of each rainbow. It is within reach that dawn cracks the walls with ivy patience.


Earth holds potatotes and bones.


It grows around a question of abandonment, without consolation of reason, perhaps cancer perhaps a pearl.


She can tell the level of tides by the penetration of subterranean ridges encircling her eyes.


Out of icicles and dirt, she fashioned a secret tool of survival. A safety pin to bridge the order of the absolute waist. Dividing gold into age and tone was a task simpler than swallowing earth. Her womb was filled with mulch. Dry as a volcano, she gave birth to perfumes.


Time heals nothing. Incomparable the suicide of memory. The concrete consolation of pavement.
Survival requires the mastery of time. Under opaque horizons the nightingale kills its audience.

plumed @ 8:38 PM | 0 comments


{Wednesday, March 17, 2004}

plumed @ 8:13 PM | 0 comments

I seek the atoms that were Heraclites' mind, scattered.

plumed @ 4:49 PM | 0 comments

Steven Vincent reports on Poetics listserv that the U.S. has been seen unloading WMD's in Iraq.

incertain plume prophesies: Shortly before the November elections, New York Times will announce the discovery of long-sought WMD's in Iraq.

(C) Making history

plumed @ 4:42 PM | 0 comments


{Monday, March 15, 2004}

Metal has the properties of pained flesh.

Poets carrying backpacks speak the only universal language they remember.

Missives turn into missiles at the nudge of her elbow.

A banner advertising Nike folds into Niobe, "Rid of Madness."

The riverflow is Mercury.
Temperature rises with the crossbeam and the third rail
Runs as a conductor Rod.

Dismember the last flashes of memory:
Naked poets search garbage dumps sewers cemeteries
For something
To bandage the tongueblade
Taut ropes to walkto hang
Perhaps to hang

Yet. Is as If. Completely White under the cunning horizon.

Aimed blindly
Transitional laws
Party lines
Sharper than -

Parting lines
Sharper than -

All this time the poet busied herself counting molecules.
The cell membrane was severed
He thought, Liberty
Death clad in colors of Dawn

Completely White
Right where the Accent falls
Letters severe as shards
Memory lost

Metal was consolation almost felt.

The state of Emergency inaugurated in the age of iron.

plumed @ 11:01 PM | 0 comments


{Sunday, March 14, 2004}

the Great Wall of China
the Prison Wall
the City Wall
the Wailing Wall
the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial Wall
the Berlin Wall
the Gypsy Wall in Usti Nad Labem
the Israel Wall
the Warsaw Ghetto Wall
the Wall of Silence
the Executioner's Wall
the Wall of Oppression
the Wall that has Ears
the Wall where Writing appears
the Wall of an Attacking Army
the Wall of a Football Team
the Wall of Waves
the Hollow Wall
the Hanging Wall
the Wall of a Membrane
the Wall of a Cell
the Wall of Victory
the Wall of Defeat
the Wall to be pushed against
the Wall to turn one's back on
the Wall to be taken
the Wall to lay by
the Wall to see through
the Wall to turn one's face to
the Wall to climb
the Wall of divide
the Wall that crumbles
the Wall that casts shadow
the Wall that murmurs

plumed @ 1:01 AM | 0 comments

"I am thinking of the end of a film on Vietnam, where the Marines march away singing a childish tune at the top of their lungs: "Mickey Mouse, M, i, c, k, e, y, M, o, u, s, e." A terrifying image: these men who have just been killing, whose several comrades have just been killed, and who take refuge in this petty tune as if inside a bullet, as impoverished and sweet as a ball of chewing gum. Old monstrous ruminators clinging to their suckers.

Leslie Kaplan, fragment from :: Henri Deluy, Une anthologie immédiate.fourbis: Paris, 1996.

plumed @ 12:19 AM | 0 comments


{Tuesday, March 09, 2004}
from the department of lost and found


the surrealism server

{thanks to geof huth linked to daniel sendecki who enjoys glancing at the surrealist complement generator}

incertainplume wishes the surrealism server many happy returns. the server had disappeared for quite a while and has now returned without, however, randomly-generated surrealist-image backgrounds on the front page. things do get lost in moving.

lost, fabulous alfred jarry website. ubuesque, ubous, ubifying!
impromptu rewards awarded to site finders.

if Y o u R website is moving, consider enlisting the service of a Mississippi moving company that employs Jesus, as its trucks advertise, yellow with black lettering: "JESUS SAVES HEALS AND DELIVERS"

plumed @ 12:05 AM | 0 comments


{Monday, March 08, 2004}

after Ilse Garnier

limit |
l | imitation
ill | limited

d e a f i n i t i a t i o n s

Correct script limitations: the center line should be aligned.

plumed @ 9:08 PM | 0 comments

scattered thoughts on lee bontecou exhibit at the museum of contemporary art in chicago

L'oeil existe à l'état sauvage. (André Breton, Le Surréalisme et la peinture).

There is an eye on the underside of a leaf that squints at you when the wind blows.

Is eye an organ of sight or a groan of insight?

Sometimes eyes have teeth, as do deep-sea fish and zippers, sometimes eyes have tongues as long as bayonets or tentacles. What comes to mind when the eye opens?

The eye can be green. The eye can swallow all color. Eye to eye, I forget who I am and why I came here.

(An old man with a headphone in his ear comes up and says, The museum will be closing in five minutes.)

Museum custodians line the walls and become invisible, more threatening than ever. Their vigilant eyes see nothing. White walldoors shut the galleries. Their blank eyelids leave me wondering what watching goes on behind them. Huis clos, dreams continue.

Impossible to look in the eyes without imaging unimaginable worlds.

Sometimes: language assuages the unseen.

Eyes that are places of habitation.

Follow the curves of this sculpture and try not to get lost.
I wandered within its shadow until I became as small as a speck in my eye.

The darkness was both an eye and an echo.

(Tourists groped the opening with their eyes. They sought reassurance in the nothingness that was there.
Precisely at the moment when they thrust their arms and necks inside, the eye surveyed their backs.
They withrew and walked away, rustling their plastic sacks to exorcise their fears.)

I wasn't there.
I was an eye. Only. No less than.

In the shape of an eye: a foetus, a shed insect armor, a fist's profile, a navel, a cannon's throat, an airplane's propeller, a flower head, a window.

That part of nature is most threatening which refuses to return our gaze.


Atoms have eyes.
Shifty electrons.
The cunning of matter.
Cuneiform nodes.

The seashell was a primal oracle. My eyes shut, my ear to the orifice. I took notes on silk scrolls. I rolled them up and placed them on a shelf in my library. Their stacks were like eyes, more eloquent than any notes.

To say we live in the age of vision is to avoid the thought of the eye.

Eye is another.

Eyes torn out of their sockets and hurled into the sky.
When these momentary constellations struck the face, it scatters into million splintered particles.

The eye of Medusa. The eye of Lot's wife. The eye of Orpheus. The eye of Polyphemus. The eye of the Labyrinth. The eye of Acteon.

Rather to be a pillar of salt, rather to vanish, rather to be torn to pieces than to shut the eye.

There is no thread to guide the thought.

L'oeil d'Oedipe.

I swallowed the sun and it scorched my throat.

The young shepherd bit off the snake's tail. L'oeil. The young shepherd bit off the tongue. The eye.

Eyes green with envy. Eyes blue with harmonies. Eyes brown with dogwood. Eyes black with excess.

The eye is the body exposed that shrinks from the touch.
The eye is an invitation to the touch.

The eye of mimosa.

Le soleil cou coupé. (Apollinaire, Zone).

A dream of a paranoic: the turning point which turns it into a nightmare is the realization that he is at the center of a scene of which he thought himself a calm observer.

There are no more bystanders. Shut the eyelids of the valise and travel to the desert.
To lie long into the night under close supervision of the elements.

Black holes turn images into silence.

Eyes of shipwrecks.

Eyes of airplanes before the crash.

Eyes of the avalanche.

Eyes of the dead. Eyes that never die.

The space curves to the desire of being unseen.
The image depends on the distance from the observer.
A house a snailshell a bombshelter.

A wartime lovesong: I want to reside beneath the eyelids of lead shrapnels as desire ruptures the dream.

Coupling of biology and nanotechnology resulted in eye proliferation.
The eye was the most sophisticated organ and it was not surprising that the program would have chosen to multiply nothing else.

Thy eye.
Cry eye.
My eye.
Dry eye.

Insects' bodies composed of eyes.

Feeler eyes, lure eyes, false eyes, scale eyes, camouflage eyes, jaw eyes, tail eyes, horn eyes, mirror eyes, prey eyes, death eyes, life eyes.

I traced my life lines with blue mascara.

On the day of the carnival.

On the day darkness fell as cloudburst.

The eyes missed their appointment.

Loose thoughts slipped through the eyelets.
Islands of deserted ideas.
The knots were tied with eyeballs.

Glass eyes. Flax eyes. Marble eyes.
Rings. Cataracts. Glaucomas.
Glabrous eyes. Vapid eyes.


Sauvé par l'oeil.

plumed @ 1:45 AM | 0 comments


{Saturday, March 06, 2004}

La médiocrité de notre univers ne dépend-elle pas essentiellement de notre pouvoir d'énonciation?

André Breton, Introduction au discours sur le peu de réalité

Doesn't the mediocrity of our universe essentially depend on our power of enunciation?

plumed @ 8:14 PM | 0 comments


{Friday, March 05, 2004}

to beat around the bush with a semaphor : a semi-aphoristic response to a bush campaign ad

1. bush wants to cash-in on september 11 and casts himself as the hero saving the nation.

he would be more convincing if he were dead.

2. again on the appropriation of images :: after all, historical battles are fought for the proprietorship of history.

3. we are truly ambushed.

4. bush administration? :: let’s do our best to have something else administered than bush.

5. the nation has suffered enough indigestion.

6. indignation!

7. have your next president packaged and delivered to your door in your favorite format.

the doormat format.

8. bushes make bristly shoewipes.

9. the real issue of the debate is :: should WMD’s be sold over or under the counter?

10. as soon as they find them.

11. and the flag lagged behind.

it was well-travelled and had a jet-lag.

12. bush truly is a believer :: he still believes in WMD’s even though he knows they don’t exist.

13. well, in his next term, he’ll invade another country and maybe get lucky.

14. what “next term”?

15. there are countries in which no vote is needed to be reelected.

16. a computer expert explained on the radio, over a year ago, how to rig an electronic voting machine and still obtain correct sample-test results.

17. errors start where arms don’t reach.

18. make sure your hands count.

19. ‘tis the season when the bush disguises as a travelling salesman. his ad-stand’s got it all: look, here a child, there an old woman, here a black person, there a nascar dad, here a married couple, there a coupled martian, here a tree, there an oil rig. “come all who seek, cure for gold teeth, potion for baldness, ointment for blindness, miracle for lameness, come all who suffer!”

20. image is mightier than a missile.

help your neighbor build a shelter.

21. … while the music was inspirational

22. bush called god for support.

let’s remember: god also supported the crusades and the inquisition.

23. “and now, let’s repeat this in five seldom used languages, like Spanish.

perhaps the voters will be so happy to be spoken to they won’t pay attention to what is said.”

24. on the environment :: where bushes grow there forests have long turned to lumber.

25. on women’s rights, gays’ rights, blacks’ rights, immigrants’ rights, etc :: bush promises to commemorate them once he’s had them all abolished.

26. on foreign and domestic policy :: domestic police in foreign countries

27. on freedom of religion :: “believe what you will as long as you come to my church.”

28. on privacy :: “everyone deserves to have his protected as long as it’s public.”

29. on equitable trials :: “in America, every defendant has the right to attorney, unless we’ve transferred him somewhere else.”

30. question, two months into bush’s second term :: “have you met any of your electoral commitments?”

answer, three hours later :: “i invented that word only eighteen minutes ago.”

31. what “second term?”

32. get a bearing on bush before bush gets his bearings.

plumed @ 12:06 AM | 0 comments


{Thursday, March 04, 2004}
coursework, off course

some are drawn and quartered; i transgress the sundial. i just left the final session of my first freshman seminar. i intended to teach (:: cheat?) surrealism but the dark blackboard commandant first wrought "french realism" & frightened my silly bus. we were soused with orthodoxy, read a lot and then some (drearest readerst...)...

but what i mean to say is: i left my final session just this afternoon. while three students were hastily preparing their presentation and the rest of us waited for christmas, i suggested we try our arms and legs at automatic writing, of a particular kind, where once in a while any writer cries out a word she comes across in his script. (for argument's sake, i display my produce in the showcase below). the experiment was interrupted by a bicycle bell (which was very à propos, considering that since last sunday i am the proud owner of an adopted bicycle, thanks to my friend Cathy).

the bell was quite real, yet had no wheels attached to it. in the wake of my tardy students, a large woman comes in to fill the door. it is the weather or rather the bell, she paused puzzled, we ring for service with it. how? when? how alarming (:: marginal)! i sympathized. but since the class had started quarter of an hour earlier, we were off the hook. (the bell was an unwitting reference to a similarly shaped object in Guy Madden's Cowards bend the knee). amidst the sudden roar, the three presenters distributed personalized handouts.

the surrealist dictionary, the result of many nocturnal labors, was published in sixteen copies with unique covers. one was a triangle of three couches with the word "SCANDAL" printed on top. another, "SUNSHINE" with grocery-store cut-outs, such as "angel soft," "lucky," and other wares that bring happiness and cheer to our households. another one was a big "O" with the word "m a k i n g" in upper left, "P" "ASSES" in mid-right, joined by a swimming orange figure, A-shaped bridge in the middle, "AT" "f a i t h." mine was a letter "e" with lee bontecou's eyes orbiting around it.

all the while Julia was snapping photos.

having set a date for another encounter at my house, we left the classroom in disarray. my students led me onto the library roof, momentarily covered with fog. i have half a fear of heights and kept away from sharp edges. there are anti-nuclear booths on the library's roof.

actually, i really itch to post some of my students' writings. there is at least a quarter-ton of talent in that crowd. and if you're around northwestern in a few weeks, inquire about the surrealist exhibit (ah, if i'm denied the space, it shall be itinerant! all in one valise).

oranges peeled off like pantyhose mellifluous osseous more than ever upon the roof they climbed toward the upper staircase where the letter stood maximum, toward the clock tabletop flat as the left hand of desire. I saw the wave curve towards the horizon and Hegel wielded a fist filled with dishwater. Where are you now that we've forgotten smelly arduous sands sharp like swallows' wings. Buttocks impressed in the sand, grains chipped with his teeth, tall Vikings with their green grass taller than a polar bear. I want to crawl under the skin of sand, love letters misspelled rough pebbles, she, boy george, she thinks nothing else of the fire hydrant grew into osmosis with kingkong, kongo-bongo, what other names would frisbies give what sound would bicycle make if it rained. E N D

plumed @ 9:32 PM | 0 comments


{Wednesday, March 03, 2004}

i ride the bicycle on the balcony railing, to and fro, to and fro, the wheel's a little rusty, the chain that holds me to the sky - - -

plumed @ 8:47 PM | 0 comments


est. feb. 5, 2004 A.D.

February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
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September 2004
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