plume now scratches the screen at

{Wednesday, June 30, 2004}

never lose weight. invest it.

plumed @ 7:07 PM | 0 comments

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

plumed @ 5:50 PM | 0 comments

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 !

plumed @ 5:32 PM | 0 comments

... that the fist in your pocket may grow leaves ...

plumed @ 2:07 PM | 0 comments

... it is time man abdicated as the ruler of the animal kingdom ...

plumed @ 2:05 PM | 0 comments

... 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 ...

plumed @ 1:56 PM | 0 comments

In the bitterest winter of cold war, Lyn Hejinian turned KBG into a force of subversion.

plumed @ 1:53 PM | 0 comments

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.

plumed @ 1:41 PM | 2 comments

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.

plumed @ 1:58 AM | 1 comments

insomnia, as a fear of sleep, perhaps, of entering where it's not a joke.

plumed @ 1:38 AM | 1 comments


{Tuesday, June 29, 2004}

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...

plumed @ 12:45 PM | 1 comments

lost in her thoughts, sometimes she finds sadness.

plumed @ 1:08 AM | 0 comments

the shapes of clouds' shadows on the ground can be more phantasmatic than the clouds' shapes.

plumed @ 1:06 AM | 0 comments

she remains faithful to her first thoughts.

plumed @ 12:55 AM | 0 comments

crack cocaine of dawn.

plumed @ 12:17 AM | 0 comments

deface the billboards' facial fascism.

plumed @ 12:13 AM | 0 comments

change your mind into a mound.

plumed @ 12:12 AM | 0 comments

come, come, said a comb to the comet.

plumed @ 12:12 AM | 0 comments

upon close analysis, plume's poetry revealed a perpetuum motif.

plumed @ 12:11 AM | 0 comments

a house of horrors in a city of whores.

plumed @ 12:10 AM | 0 comments

mr. woolly's life mission was to set stray dogs straight.

plumed @ 12:10 AM | 0 comments

for all your philosophy needs, use the notion lotion.

plumed @ 12:10 AM | 0 comments

they found themselves in a tent, of course unintentionally.

plumed @ 12:09 AM | 0 comments

salvaged from a poetry reading:
"he cut off his arm to save his face"

plumed @ 12:05 AM | 0 comments

wallflowers became floorbored.

plumed @ 12:05 AM | 0 comments


put your trust in state-sponsored cruise-control.

plumed @ 12:04 AM | 0 comments

plume rented a breathing room overlooking the maine air museum.

plumed @ 12:03 AM | 0 comments

Celsius excelled in his scale.

plumed @ 12:03 AM | 0 comments

plume is back, omnia in|somnia.

plumed @ 12:01 AM | 0 comments


{Friday, June 18, 2004}

terrorism is the foundation of a strong government.
all the while bush wages a war against terror, he is thankful for its existence.

plumed @ 8:36 PM | 0 comments


{Thursday, June 17, 2004}

... flattened penitentiary of fog leaves ...

plumed @ 10:13 PM | 0 comments

... there was only enough room for the released breath ...

plumed @ 10:12 PM | 0 comments

... milkweed grows here as elsewhere flies the bird of speech ...

plumed @ 10:11 PM | 0 comments

... the prophetic translucidity of minerals ...

plumed @ 10:10 PM | 0 comments

her hands were made of bricks.

she watched them lie in ruins.

plumed @ 10:07 PM | 0 comments

TB : le tambour d'amour

plumed @ 10:07 PM | 0 comments

... la rose mécanique s'épancha dans les téchnologies de l'azur ...

plumed @ 10:06 PM | 0 comments

she set her hair on fire.

elle le fit sans l'haïr.

plumed @ 10:04 PM | 0 comments

dans les eaux rêvoirs

plumed @ 10:02 PM | 0 comments is the house i uninhabited ...

plumed @ 10:02 PM | 0 comments


{Wednesday, June 16, 2004}

... never renounce essential solitude ...

plumed @ 11:56 PM | 0 comments

... rien ne sent ainsi mauvais que le bon sens ...

plumed @ 11:56 PM | 0 comments

plume ate breakfast at the water table.

plumed @ 11:09 PM | 0 comments

Parigolo, Date (pitted)

Two Hume It May Consort,


Since eerily,

plume, pH (d)

plumed @ 6:02 PM | 0 comments

... truth was a little heap of sticks piled in the desert and set on fire ...

plumed @ 5:31 PM | 0 comments


{Tuesday, June 15, 2004}

sign in an art gallery: beware of spitting images

plumed @ 9:26 AM | 0 comments


{Monday, June 14, 2004}

René Char was born on this day in 1907.

plumed @ 8:42 AM | 0 comments


{Saturday, June 12, 2004}

plume believes in modern hell we will use electric teeth grinders.

plumed @ 10:32 PM | 0 comments

combs are finer than brushes.

plume is astonished that while toothcombs are sold, no one combs his teeth.

plumed @ 10:18 PM | 0 comments

plume advanced his candidacy under the slogan: LIBERATE THE LIBRARIANS!

plumed @ 10:08 PM | 0 comments

plume's handblender blends handshakes.

plumed @ 10:02 PM | 0 comments

plume used to specialize in concrete poetry.
thinking ahead of his times, he now turns to reinforced concrete.

plumed @ 9:56 PM | 0 comments

... solar addicts chew light with their blanched teeth ...

plumed @ 7:32 PM | 0 comments


{Friday, June 11, 2004}

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

plumed @ 10:42 AM | 0 comments


{Thursday, June 10, 2004}

... et toi, ne te caches pas derrière le rideau de ton visage ...

plumed @ 3:56 PM | 0 comments

... mise-à-nue par le grand âge elle paraissait telle qu'elle était vraiment ...

plumed @ 3:54 PM | 0 comments

Elle me dit: "Que ces jeunes sont amères, tu trouves?"
Je lui reponds: "Oui, les jeunes américains."

plumed @ 3:51 PM | 0 comments

It's raining again. Plume wished it were more original.

plumed @ 3:49 PM | 0 comments

... 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 ...

plumed @ 2:42 PM | 0 comments


{Wednesday, June 09, 2004}

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...

plumed @ 11:22 PM | 0 comments

... social codes, including the prescribed "regard for others," make meaning impossible ...

plumed @ 11:12 PM | 0 comments

... savage thought rebels against the studied gesture of politeness that reduces any possibility of caring for another to a meaningless varnish ...

plumed @ 11:06 PM | 0 comments


{Tuesday, June 08, 2004}

... language languishes ...

plumed @ 8:46 PM | 0 comments

... langage l'engage ...

plumed @ 8:30 PM | 0 comments

the latest translators of "Anna Karenina" live in France and have not even heard of Oprah.

plumed @ 8:20 PM | 0 comments

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.

plumed @ 8:18 PM | 0 comments

since the torture ban is now officially found not binding for Bush, we are free to torture him!

plumed @ 8:17 PM | 0 comments


{Monday, June 07, 2004}

plumed @ 11:56 PM | 0 comments

Maid in America.

plumed @ 11:51 PM | 0 comments

Tooth is stranger than friction.

plumed @ 11:46 PM | 0 comments

Lessing in disguise.

plumed @ 11:42 PM | 0 comments

If it's not worth saying, do it.

plumed @ 11:34 PM | 0 comments

"More fucking than fighting,"
Larry Sawyer, Artist's statement

plumed @ 11:30 PM | 0 comments

"we are free to live in fear"
Bobby Conn

plumed @ 11:27 PM | 0 comments

fired but not smoked.

plumed @ 11:19 PM | 0 comments

plume paid attention and was now counting on interest.

plumed @ 11:16 PM | 0 comments

... time fruitflies ...

plumed @ 11:14 PM | 0 comments

there is reason in treason.

plumed @ 11:13 PM | 0 comments

flattery makes fatter, irony makes flatter.

plumed @ 11:12 PM | 0 comments

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.

plumed @ 5:28 PM | 0 comments

even if courted, imp lawyers should keep quiet.

plumed @ 2:41 AM | 0 comments

plume decided to republish his old books under new titles.

plumed @ 2:38 AM | 0 comments

his was the most underwritten typewriter of all times.

plumed @ 2:34 AM | 0 comments


{Saturday, June 05, 2004}

sometimes plume forgets himself.
luckily, he also finds himself well.

plumed @ 10:52 PM | 0 comments

in the self-help section at the library, plume spotted a dogeared copy of "Presidency for Dummies."

plumed @ 10:43 PM | 0 comments

... yearning for an earring ...

plumed @ 10:36 PM | 0 comments

the best is asbestos. as best as toes go.

plumed @ 10:35 PM | 0 comments

who has his feet firmly planted on the ground is unlikely to go anywhere.

plumed @ 10:24 PM | 0 comments

who keeps his head in the clouds often bumps into airplanes.

plumed @ 10:24 PM | 0 comments

these were the years of corn ...

plumed @ 10:23 PM | 0 comments

plume found himself tongue-tied.
but at least with the knotted tongue he won't forget what he can't say.

plumed @ 10:22 PM | 0 comments


{Friday, June 04, 2004}
Franck André Jamme
Fragments of the life of scarabs

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.

plumed @ 11:05 PM | 0 comments

plume fell silent and twisted his ankle.

plumed @ 9:21 PM | 0 comments

plume's philosophy: "the mind must know its elf"

plumed @ 9:20 PM | 0 comments

... she exercised her sense of touch until she could discern colors ...

plumed @ 8:52 PM | 0 comments

unapplauded, plume jumped off the portrait...

plumed @ 9:54 AM | 0 comments


{Thursday, June 03, 2004}

plume just didn't make it to the last cruise of the ship of fools.

plumed @ 1:11 AM | 0 comments

plume wrote a short story.

two worms meet and they both like meat and they eat each other and they keep going.

plumed @ 1:04 AM | 0 comments

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."

plumed @ 12:55 AM | 0 comments

plume decided to specialize in indiscrete mathematics.

plumed @ 12:54 AM | 0 comments

plume wondered whether footnotes wear shoes...

plumed @ 12:53 AM | 0 comments


{Wednesday, June 02, 2004}

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.

plumed @ 7:30 AM | 0 comments









plumed @ 7:29 AM | 0 comments's been years since i've seen the ground darkened by birds' shadow ...

plumed @ 7:23 AM | 0 comments

plume's soul rattled the bars of his rib cage.

plumed @ 7:22 AM | 0 comments

plume left this sign on the door: "i am out of my mind. will be back by noon."

plumed @ 7:20 AM | 0 comments


{Tuesday, June 01, 2004}

... he had his mouth full of clouds ...

plumed @ 10:37 PM | 0 comments

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.

plumed @ 10:11 PM | 0 comments

auto - portrait
proto - attrait

plumed @ 9:51 PM | 0 comments

...everything happens in the blindspots of history ...

plumed @ 7:48 PM | 0 comments

my arm
a snake's

my arm
sung to

it sheds



in the

my arm


plumed @ 7:43 PM | 0 comments

... on that day, the planet will be a beauty mark ...

plumed @ 7:39 PM | 0 comments

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.

plumed @ 5:26 PM | 0 comments


est. feb. 5, 2004 A.D.

February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005

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