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has inklings of rêve o' vers, mers veillent, bicycles & etcefutura plume causes indigestion, or worse, when tickled in microsoft browser.
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never lose weight. invest it. warning: anagram infestation at National Poetry Foundation. choose the anagram that suits your experience Nonentity Paranoia Foldout Openly Odorant Infatuation Innately Outdo Profanation Plutonian Detonation Foray Fortunately, Piano Donation Unintentional Parody Afoot Loopy Andantino Refutation Upon Deflationary Notation Pointy Afternoon Adulation another reason to read Margaret Avison: her name is a plethora of anagrams margarita ovens matron vagaries armor navigates animator's grave rearmost vagina strange moravia german aviators granite samovar averting aromas samaritan grove ... there might be more but i'm exhausted !
... that the fist in your pocket may grow leaves ... ... it is time man abdicated as the ruler of the animal kingdom ... ... very few very important things that can only be lived ... ... both death and flight from death is accomplished in the gesture of hoarding, objects, memories ... ... redefinition of still life: the gathering of remnants ... In the bitterest winter of cold war, Lyn Hejinian turned KBG into a force of subversion. The Lutheran Surrealist writes a note on Orono poetry conference & mentions one of the astonishing encounters there: a Canadian poet, Margaret Avison. There was something else I wrote down, a quote she used as the epigraph to one of her poems: An intellectual is a person listening to people. This kind of truth cannot be put by us, not into words, not in its place. Man can only ap-prehend, never com-prehend it. An award (or a word) to whom finds the source of this quote. Hence, here sought: a man of vast knowledge, master of many languages including Persian, Arabic... who spent the last years of his life at the same retirement home as Margaret Avison. The lightning rod of encounters. this is beautiful: mailart @ qbdp to me, all creation is a letter, everything written painted collaged is addressed to someone even if present only as a vapor trace on a window frame. to send "mailart" to a unique address is to cease pretending that publishing matters. perhaps we can care for no more than one reader. insomnia, as a fear of sleep, perhaps, of entering where it's not a joke. . sadly, incertain plume gets even less certain. the intermittent appearance of squawkboxes prompted a switch to more reliable blogger comments... but i think i am losing all the wonderful notes... lost in her thoughts, sometimes she finds sadness. the shapes of clouds' shadows on the ground can be more phantasmatic than the clouds' shapes. she remains faithful to her first thoughts. crack cocaine of dawn. deface the billboards' facial fascism. change your mind into a mound. come, come, said a comb to the comet. upon close analysis, plume's poetry revealed a perpetuum motif. a house of horrors in a city of whores. mr. woolly's life mission was to set stray dogs straight. for all your philosophy needs, use the notion lotion. they found themselves in a tent, of course unintentionally. salvaged from a poetry reading: "he cut off his arm to save his face" wallflowers became floorbored. orono road sign: SPEED LIMIT ENFORCED BY RADAR. put your trust in state-sponsored cruise-control. plume rented a breathing room overlooking the maine air museum. Celsius excelled in his scale. plume is back, omnia in|somnia. . terrorism is the foundation of a strong government. all the while bush wages a war against terror, he is thankful for its existence. . ... flattened penitentiary of fog leaves ... ... there was only enough room for the released breath ... ... milkweed grows here as elsewhere flies the bird of speech ... ... the prophetic translucidity of minerals ... her hands were made of bricks. she watched them lie in ruins. TB : le tambour d'amour ... la rose mécanique s'épancha dans les téchnologies de l'azur ... she set her hair on fire. elle le fit sans l'haïr. noyer dans les eaux rêvoirs pousse en vers ...here is the house i uninhabited ... . ... never renounce essential solitude ... ... rien ne sent ainsi mauvais que le bon sens ... plume ate breakfast at the water table. Parigolo, Date (pitted) Two Hume It May Consort, ............................. ............................. ............................. Since eerily, plume, pH (d) ... truth was a little heap of sticks piled in the desert and set on fire ... . sign in an art gallery: beware of spitting images . René Char was born on this day in 1907. . plume believes in modern hell we will use electric teeth grinders. combs are finer than brushes. plume is astonished that while toothcombs are sold, no one combs his teeth. plume advanced his candidacy under the slogan: LIBERATE THE LIBRARIANS! plume's handblender blends handshakes. plume used to specialize in concrete poetry. thinking ahead of his times, he now turns to reinforced concrete. ... solar addicts chew light with their blanched teeth ... . voleurs de violons aux mains de vérité qui montent au ciel par l'échelle du fouet il n'y a que la folie qui appaisera le silence . ... et toi, ne te caches pas derrière le rideau de ton visage ... ... mise-à-nue par le grand âge elle paraissait telle qu'elle était vraiment ... Elle me dit: "Que ces jeunes sont amères, tu trouves?" Je lui reponds: "Oui, les jeunes américains." It's raining again. Plume wished it were more original. ... the burg of Ham, that Ham founded according to Marburgian writ, was in its founding days but a hamlet. 'Tis there, under the reign of Otello, that the first motel was erected, wherein omelettes and ham were served to all fops in top hats. These days are now long gone and the hamlet fell to shambles. All that remains is a hat-and-burger stand ... . A. found a fashion magazine on the train. I can't remember its title - something short, like I.Q., but most likely its opposite. She was fascinated by a series of five or six double-page ads from a company whose name sounds something like "hard-core fashion", evoking fashion for "tough" people. I, too, in turn become much too absorbed by the photographs to read anything. The models are rather generic, slim girls with regular and indistinct features, all wearing elaborate beach outfits, too elaborate to call them bikinis. The girls' poses are supposed to emanate independence, self-assurance; their glances are unconcerned and detached. What makes the ad strange is that each has a bruise: one, a black eye; another a rough cut across her forehead, nearly splitting the eyelid; another's thigh has scraped skin; another displays a bruised elbow... The photographs are done in earth tones: beige, green, gold, dirty blue... except for the impeccably white bandages. And even stranger, the wounds are not properly dressed; rather, the gauze, the band-aid... are applied so as to leave the worst cut and bruise exposed to sight. I know it's all make-up, but the injuries look real. One doesn't notice them at first; the photographs look like commonplace fashion ads. Then the eye drifts towards the bright spot: the white light falling on the lacerated thigh, the useless band-aid that appears more stuck to the page than to the wound... What fascinates is the wound's irrelevance. The models behave, precisely, as if it were make-up. The ugly wounds -- and they are ugly, even explicit -- become ornaments. But they are not ornamental in the same way a tattoo is, or tribal branding: they make the impression of being random. Are we to suppose that these thin-armed girls have just waged a victorious battle, slim Amazons with spiked heels? Or are they modern-day battered wives, heroically stylish in their abuse? I know the wounds are all make-up... And yet, it seems that they are the only "real" thing here, much more real that the girls with their expressionless faces... ... social codes, including the prescribed "regard for others," make meaning impossible ... ... savage thought rebels against the studied gesture of politeness that reduces any possibility of caring for another to a meaningless varnish ... . ... language languishes ... ... langage l'engage ... the latest translators of "Anna Karenina" live in France and have not even heard of Oprah. oprah winfrey recommends a book she hasn't read. she thus upholds the status of "classics" as books everyone must own and no one reads. since the torture ban is now officially found not binding for Bush, we are free to torture him! . 
Maid in America. Tooth is stranger than friction. Lessing in disguise. If it's not worth saying, do it. "More fucking than fighting," Larry Sawyer, Artist's statement
"we are free to live in fear" Bobby Conn
fired but not smoked. plume paid attention and was now counting on interest. ... time fruitflies ... there is reason in treason. flattery makes fatter, irony makes flatter. now that plume no longer has a car, he finally has time to read road signs from the passenger seat. he is amazed at the number of neighborhoods inhabited by slow children. he admires signs encouraging exercise and deems shoulder work a reasonable recommendation. he is not forward enough to make passes, anyway. he learns with dismay of the highway toll rising. he plugs his ears at the approach of sirens. even if courted, imp lawyers should keep quiet. plume decided to republish his old books under new titles. his was the most underwritten typewriter of all times. . sometimes plume forgets himself. luckily, he also finds himself well. in the self-help section at the library, plume spotted a dogeared copy of "Presidency for Dummies." ... yearning for an earring ... the best is asbestos. as best as toes go. who has his feet firmly planted on the ground is unlikely to go anywhere. who keeps his head in the clouds often bumps into airplanes. these were the years of corn ... plume found himself tongue-tied. but at least with the knotted tongue he won't forget what he can't say. . So the opening of doors. At dawn. If necessary, capable of insistence. Even if they were already open. No matter. And saying that everything was soluble in the air of days. That everything dissolved in it. All ears, he perceived more and more clearly that some things in nature, let's call it delightful, were present, in the end, only to spare us. It was merely another chance. Asked oneself whether all insurrection was forbidden. He hummed his lists: "Trembling rings, animal presentiments, thought curiosities, the ineffable power of fog, tumultuous hair -- and when cut, it bleeds." For he could have retraced everything, paint everything over thousands of times. Or what, in the end, a river might have thought of its own end. That certain things in nature, let's call it favorable, were present, in the end, only to cover up the abyss of chaotic forces that followed on our heels as steadily as our shadow. Never in the same way. That everything was soluble in the water of words. Everything was getting lost there. Wondered whether this meant that all revolt was in vain. Walked. More and more frightened. Began to make out in the distance a little hut that couldn't have been bigger than a dog's lair and that nevertheless everyone around called "the palace of possession," never really knowing why, even if he heard those who had entered it say sometimes that there was nothing inside. At all. Save possession. From this place where the river drowned in the sea, clearly. Also knew that the forgotten well of light, that slept at the bottom of language, might have well entered into consideration as a lure. And, saying "lure," he was really seeing an urge. Or this prolonged shiver that ran so close to the boat, doubling it, then taking a sudden turn in order to aim in our direction, slowly, against the current, and all at once we said there had to be down there something like a foreboding. But of what? Does the fog, in one's mind, rather sharpen the eye of the monster? Or the favor? He could have remembered, for example, that man would happen sometimes to cross the threshold of any given room with the present throbbing in his hands, red, always slowly, naked or almost. Wondered whether this meant that the tragic turned little by little into an imperceptible fog, almost completely invisible. While the other's eyes, she too nearly naked, suddenly reflected only a very certain variety of the real. He hummed his lists: "The art of unflinchingly confronting ecstasy, the vacillation of the world, the mélange of nonchalance with the spirit of perfection, the renewed expansion of so-called lost energies, uncommon stories that failed sometimes in certain minds." Of this place where he finally neared of something larger than him. The air was now so transparent, behind the fog, one so little occupied with the other, so little taken by the hiding, by the make-up, that any passerby might have well seen there nothing but air itself, finally alone, just at the moment of passing. Of erring. And the possession, obviously. For the monster always ended up vomiting horrible rings chained one to another, bands of refuse that no one could ever identify and that hence bore no name. To pass or to slide or to slip in silence towards the rain of light that slept on the tip of the tongue, it too forgotten, why not? Or else they no longer reflected, the other's eyes, but that variety of the real in the end the least garrulous, the clearest. While one was drowning, but out of joy. While one was finally becoming the thing greater than oneself. So sharp was his attention, go figure, and the world's surface so alike, so uniform. Often the same splash, the same, or nearly, swell of the sea, the same color. So the opening of doors, of course. Mainly at dawn. trans. Ela K.
from: Yves di Manno, ed. 49 Poètes. Paris: Flammarion, 2004. plume fell silent and twisted his ankle. plume's philosophy: "the mind must know its elf" ... she exercised her sense of touch until she could discern colors ... unapplauded, plume jumped off the portrait... . plume just didn't make it to the last cruise of the ship of fools. plume wrote a short story. two worms meet and they both like meat and they eat each other and they keep going.
one of dostoevsky's oeuvres is entitled, in polish translation, "zbrodnia i kara", "crime and punishment." as a child, i picked the book off the shelf believing it was "zbrodnia ikara", "the crime of icarus." plume decided to specialize in indiscrete mathematics. plume wondered whether footnotes wear shoes... . bon anniversaire, marquis de sade (né 2 juin, 1740 - )# #( - mort 2 décembre 1814) * *le jour d'anniversaire on n'est pas censé de penser au jour de la mort. thun der soun ded haun tedly then whis per his sed tor ren tially ...it's been years since i've seen the ground darkened by birds' shadow ... plume's soul rattled the bars of his rib cage. plume left this sign on the door: "i am out of my mind. will be back by noon." . ... he had his mouth full of clouds ... one woke up, one looked in the mirror, one peeled an orange, one opened a book. one lived. one neared dawn. one put one's ear to it. one wasn't sure one was one. auto - portrait portetiiortrait eaupiiirtotaux troptriiiopttôt tairetioruterre proto - attrait ...everything happens in the blindspots of history ... my arm has a snake's skin my arm dances when sung to it sheds scales both minor and major half tones rattle singly in the fistfold shelter my arm me anders in sands mine his ses before explosion ... on that day, the planet will be a beauty mark ... On June 8, after 122 years, Venus will be once more "in transit": in the course of 6 hours, a little black point will be observed crossing the face of the sun. In America, we'll catch the last few hours, right after the sunrise. The next transit, in 2012. . est. feb. 5, 2004 A.D. |
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