Night and Day


9.23.18 Up to D in French Etymology. Finally forcing myself – to stop worrying & get back to work. New poem today, Hand of Blood. 8.28.18 Added whole new section after […]


Up to D in French Etymology. Finally forcing myself – to stop worrying & get back to work. New poem today, Hand of Blood.


Added whole new section after all at end (so far) on poem Hasta La Vista. Could just make another poem out of it. But I kind of like the switch up — at the end — from wild sorrow to curiosity as a kind of bloodlust — relenting to philosophy as exotica / astonishment.


Finished three poems that have been working on and on all last year!?! Sweetie, Hasta La Vista and Ensalivé.

Started a new one: Banditti.

They are as usual, on the one hand singsong and on another all spit and polished, touch of the stinky – buff barf buff. Sylvia, staying alive, by sticking closer to Door The-a Park ‘er. Fkng A.

Uploading Syllabi sometime TODAY.


Back from seaside where read, slept, ate and walked with a relish, made it to the museums, visited two pretty well stocked used bookstores in and around Gloucester.

One Dogtown Books – is one of the only used bookstores I know of on Eastern Seaboard that buys and sells Lit Crit (other than the Strand) – got 1) Camille Paglia’s: Break Blow Burn on the thick parts in Poetry, 2) a lovingly tendered literary criticism on Mr. Blake first published in 1933. And, 3) Pound’s letters to Joyce at bookstore in Manchester by The Sea. Most of Joyce’s letters to Pound were unfortunately lost “in war.”

Not so Pound’s letters to J. Turns out himself, tenaciously helped Joyce beat drum as against the heads of Printers for publication of his books, Printers greatly afeared getting fined by the “medieval” censors. Pound wrote reviews in Blast and Egoist, etc., helped to get advance chapters & poems from Joyce (in Trieste) (pre)published in London avant-garde art + lit magazines.

Something Pound does for me (in his work) relates back (again) to Browning’s Sordello, how both deal with history as an invented dimension which falling thru bears every resemblance, as a prevalent restlessness and/or confrontation, with the “present.” A kind of literary existentialism that falls in after the inescapability of time. Lovely heady stuff.

With Pound, its very very slick & cut and dried, so much so its spooky.

With Browning its still radically Victorian – but as if back in the 13th century himself stuck in a kind of passionate quicksand of “history.” Whilst rooting around for its presence – suffers pangs of a kind of liquidescence, foaming up under the line, as he beats at it, up against the breakwalls of history – a hard thick read that is really quite shocking.

Joyce (for me) traces back (in a way) to the “hysteria” in Sordello.


Beauty w.r.t safety <snared – breath breath>, here  (upon) wrestling with – room decor, with furniture. Upon return we do redo, start straight away moving stuff around, as if to create a new relationship with my working environment – wouldnt that be Jolly. And yet, Stinky shows up still & insists upon the following decorative declarative: Le Butt Station Fournitures de Bureau. Evidently, paperclips are stored inside la cuvette de la toilette.

Next week prep for school.


Editing poetry, revised several. Started revising Swag, offline. Its coming up different.


Dont be mad dont be sad, dont get even? But its good to be even – support however precarious or tenuous – is worth it. Worth every bit of it. In my struggle to stay even.

Espèce, is a word in French Proust uses, that is translated as incarnation – but it means species, and not just species, it seems, but species as also spacial, as to say the space and its inhabitant.

Stinkitudes. I have demons who brood, fall into swirls of meaning, and hang there by the vents, caught by its liberality, assay, capability for mischievous inflection – and through which I am informed I listen, beyond would be subscribed as acceptable limits.

But demons are rotations – its like a kingdom, double born. Musicality at thresholds of silence, illicit, full of torches, treacherous because its defiant. Proust: “L’art émeut a la façon d’un crime.” Every hair on her hairs-breadth fills full of it and goes looking – its an uprising in a way on the will of my destiny – and I cant say no.

Gratitude is in some ways cursed by it. As it does occur as a kind of violent upswing against equilibrium as a ritual – that is creativity asserting itself. At a certain point it loses present tense, loses adherence to efforts to sustain a specific situational context, loses compliance with that belief – folds & falls into lusts that beckon out at what demons love to call the murderous reaches –

Ultimately, it controls me – more than I control it. If that were not true – the demons reason, then love would not be true, how could it exist here at all.

But the “plug pulling” out beyond left field, doesnt own me – like say Lucia Joyce, who threw chairs, started fires – or TS Eliots wife Viv who seemingly got lost “out” there too.

There is anger – at how hard it appears to be, to rise above those around you – but thats not it – there is no rising above others – there is only shared method, and the work itself – and both are demanding, even pain-staking.

Stinkitudes burn through All That – to find joy. Keeps at it – till ultimately exposes what I love to call Porn Corn – or loveable pastiche – where gratitude so intrigued with its liberation, becomes intoxicated, and as a jest of outrageous lust eats itself – crosses over into theatre of the absurd, reckons with beauty as freak show, as carnival

Seemingly, due to Nick Cave (and his wife Susie) & Shane, I now think of All This as process, as Beautiful Trouble, my puzzle-pushing Camille kicking up perils, but duck duck goose, as it is hopelessly circular, no longer hangs on death as veracity of religious prudence – as reducable to The Absolute (death as a moving target) –

Not – condemning its perfusion – because the distillery is always at work – somewhere, its license to produce works it out, and in its pursuit of greater breadth – always touches after the forbidden.


Reading Marcel Proust’s short stories, called Les Plaisirs and les Jours. The Pleasure and The Days, in French with English translation. As am studying now methods and stylistic comparisons translating between English & French.

2 books also reading – on translating – Stylistique Comparee Ou Francais et L’Anglais and Thinking French Translation.

Discussion on equivalence when translating – Came across topic when first started translating Colette straight away. And its a relief to hear them discuss technical ways it is approached – all the way out to industry “jargon.”


WORKING ON Oblivion Mining new entry over in Tru Con – Its about having triggers, a trigger going off – that over time became built in – to a madness. Triggers are very self destructive, as without warning, no matter against better interests, the pursuit of an essentially creative desire suddenly gets stretched to a breaking point and self sabotages –

In this new piece, I am attempting to dig in after what occurs like a sudden rave of blindness, where the trigger pulls – as there is a knowledge that One is One’s own Worst Enemy but that the trigger occurs behind One’s own back (meanwhile full of excuses) – and that this has always been the case. Always. It’s a demon rush for sure. And the bigger the beauty the more crushing its collapse.

Its pretty much unspeakable except in exotic terms, as it sits inside a kind of sublime intellectual game or circuit – branching out into so many different threads of existence, persistence, imagination and contempt. And no matter how hard I try to stay on its “bright side” – as it is surrounded by titillation and humor – ultimately, the trigger goes off – and suddenly there is madness again.

Painful work.

Also working on French, all SUMMER reading nothing but French. Studying methods for translating French.

And have been working very hard – on poems, whose awareness of where and what they are – appears to be getting stronger everyday.

Thinking about making a Chapbook to send out that includes some Poems, Tru Con and perhaps Fiction too.

Dreaming every day about New Design HERE as well – sick of this design, want something new.

But wordpress is transforming and there is argument going on in my head to wait until its new editor is up. So far the new editor is not quite ready for prime time. Any development using the new editor requires React and recommends ES6, JSX & Webpack – all of which I am working on learning.


Haunts & Bounds?

Transparency shows beauty and her horrors – always trying to find a way back to allowance, where there just never was much. Puritanical constraints abounded and dumbfounded.

Discovery – that beauty and her horrors occur as religious – and extend beyond any one correspondence – of clean or of dirty, or of the violent or of the cursed – pre-existing me, as a holy and infernal seduction – in religious iconography, for instance.

Being cursed – that desire goes both ways – as a carrier of beauty and its contrary – wild, exploitive, driven by a lust that strives for beauty and is burdened by sorrow, hateful even and gloat. It erupts and lumbers through sorrows plunders.

And in moments of startling visionary incursion – appears as if Herculean. That is to say – as much as a mark of “distinction” as cursed forever to a vivid restlessness, nearer to infamy, being relegated there by a certain miscreation at birth.

All of it — all of it, were fields of desire – whose mystery and intensity, as a garden like creature, a nymph and tosspot — all of it – has been around since the little body became aware of its existence, and its birth, in a way, via orgasm.

Somehow those two are related, peak of orgasm and struggle to consciousness. Hitting the  peaks seducing through layers and layers of imago, desire,fear, anger, jest, many many childhoods are lost to loneliness, many many long lonely hours, suffocating and brittle. Dreaming is the only way out!

Was, as is – astonished and mystified by depths that would devour, languorous, unduly, ferocious, filled with sparks of anger and loops of profound absolution, my heart sank into that eternal infernal void, philosophy loves so much its effort to define –

Rooting round germs of being and miscreation for a sacred mutiny on the bounty, up against the proud futile nothingness of a lonely unspeakable death – that like the resurrection of a god or a nymph, fell into battle, turning ever turning with escape, imago, rebellion.

Much like I discovered discussed by Georges Bataille.


Searching through what vagaries proust takes with pronouns in French right now. He twirls around French fab pronoun attachment – French breaks open pronoun usage for me, not like Pynchon or Joyce, but attaches it to movement, to verbs and I long massage that attachment as a meandering flow that scoops at it up front, as passion is incipient –

Shane MacGowan

Back of my mind making up with The Eclipse of The Sun. I am finding my way thru as best I can. Making peace with my past – just is something I really needed to do. Otherwise its treachery.

And treachery is a form of treason, treason-to-being that cavorts with visionary violence, tactics that are privileges, are theatrical bounty – whose wild mystery twisted me and twisted me – falling through misery as an unspeakable adoration – that was also a kind of disintegration, that was beyond making sense.

Then death becomes the pipe line, oo la la, it destroyed not the surface from the reality – but me from present tense in a way that was like a frightened squirrel up a tree whose roots were unstill, were burning up with desire.

Real time

Abrupt. And scathing. In a way, where I grew up, as the righteous are scathing – it emerged from the closet with madness and sorrow.

As around me laid violent vicious pools of febrile righteous tyranny – that magically equated beauty with escape.

From the traps life lays – as mystics thunder roared with wonder, and the little bird in me – started begging and begging to be bagged to shore from a horror, in which I lay, drowning, like a curse, in beauty and death.

Death became like this access to everything magical and taboo.

I began to believe madness broke with reality in a way that was beauty’s revenge.


In many ways its the misleading parts that break your heart that must be transcended, must be understood too as allure, something I started to call the great reversal. Came up with it – reading Genet.

Nothing more religious than tyranny of time and beauty as flame.

The end

Proust in French bi lingual lovely. Working on learning these things called blocks with react.js library, to revamp site. and think i almost figured an approach to my first one – using css transforms and maybe even animation, from another plug??? hmmm. If I check that plug and see if its created in any way I can snatch it, globally – in connection with onclick — etc.


Nick Cave showed up in my dream last night. I went to a show. I didn’t mean to go but I couldn’t keep away. It was in an small intimate theatre on grass though I hung out by a door. And the people there were welcoming, pulling me in, giving me a seat. And one of allie’s white cats named Sammy showed up, and the park Police were chasing after it. And somebody shared their hot dog with me, it was a corn dog, home made, misshapen, overlong and bulbous. The hot dog end, stuck out beyond its bread, was being held out toward me – so being hungry I bit it off. Then my mother showed up and everybody was welcoming.

Long like Alpine pipes of red glass all set up as instruments before the stage. One in front of me, its mouthpiece had a jagged edge. This evidently pissed him off.

Wrestled me from sleep – A bevy of red pipes glistening in the dark woke me up as a sweetness of memory, ahh, oh a pipe dream I love pipe dreams. And he said hello to me mum.


Mello Yello

Reading Proust. Short story about a dying man – who upon regaining his health appears to himself distanced vaguely from passions desire, to re-conjoin as before with life’s labors, many burdens and plight.

French forces me into broadening words incursion of meaning in a way that is startling and flamboyant – especially since its Proust. And I am hungry for its demands.

Alls quiet on the western front  – and yet – the bubble has again been pierced by intrigue –  I am feeling fearful, as geyser and tub grope with beauty and horror re-emerging, as both memory and spontaneity. At times – scaring the hell out of me – while also being hungry for treasure – and for this new found relief. 

I am calling “forgiveness,” a sacred assumption, as brushes over like miracle dust, that crack of violence and terror. Where being enchanted by avowals of demons hungry blood (to the death) had soared – against sorrows, against the banality of time, and a deeply burgeoning great shallow of shame – It swung me like a rope over whirlpools of madness, struck between the desires of virtue and hell.

Truly twisted me – into having to cope somehow – with having fallen from grace (not that I ever felt touched by grace, this shit started around 7). Life had become just one long tortuous scrape with the tragic runes, that mysteriously dwell in me. The madness ultimately resolving into a hideous need to play dead, to freeze the tremors and horrors, to a grinding down stillness – alas, the martyrdoms of heaven is verily hell.

This new capacity (though not absolute) to wave the red cape instead of dying sacrificially, as the arrow seeks its destination, arrows that can still throttle my heart (with bold dementia), appears to be overseen (in fact, now as ever) by lush storied fickle sentiment, fickle being a vulnerability to en masse yearn and believe.

It casts affectionate cloys and glimmers, now understood as pattern, Bourrough’s “routines” if you will, the cosmos of theatre. And like a heedless, somewhat preposterous, ironical puppet show – throws kisses at fourth wall – as to say, is complicit with the tundra of love, warms against its mercenary wheedlings – that pray with gratitude, like grist for the mill, for the sweet glowing churn of its visionary torment.



Jar is double for going under. Reaching beyond present tense. Where image is in play, arterials as themselves arteries consumed with sympathetic intents, insurrections, transgressions – how heart assumes revelry and falls thru horror in wars of love and death.

A Fiend, who hates nothing more than blasting someone loved – to a resurrectionary death. As a beguiled provocatively indentured robbery, in vast oceanic tumbler of time – using love as fission and flair for essences after impossibility of virtue whose gap can turn violent with dimensional revelation. Dimension comes from word for measurement. According to Skeats.

Fiends ”in the jar” whose ferocity deludes after misery and disaster, as vicious gets, into peaks of oblivion, as divinely encumbered mischief mining ecstasies that emerge out of sorrow, freedom, hell.

Call them, fiends – out of love for implacability of intensity –

And how these die hards chase the mopey forlorn day creature down the street, with a pilgrims bottle dangling at lips, screaming at me to not concede to impossibility of truth, to make it “true.” Truth and true being encumbered by grave and enamoring tension.

Pilgrim Fiends that wake me up at night examining distinctions between real and true, pilgrims of progress. Its an old book – about following purity of light all the way to an offering of self up at light to lip of death. True is marked with reverence, is transformative after desire, true hordes precipitously after both affection and beauty.

Real meanwhile, is haunted, terribly – by its disparity from the true, is raucously contaminated by the grumbling tumbling stumbling-in dialectic, battling over interpretations of reality, as if significant, as if meaning of life.

Real at the Lip

Am convinced there’s an American Indian relish for theatre – whose beat is meant to transcend time, that up chucked from soil as Spengler might “say it” sends me out, mapping the doubles, unduly lush hungry for seductions by way of Indian permissions admissions demissions look outs that send me tracking like a storage room for the jar, as if its a smell as its the similitude and its wilderness, the slip into chimney breast & rung head – divine lands and heavens hunting and heavens burnings the treasure chest of journey and image.

Spirit is a word used as incumbent for latent image-laced structures that allure these admissions, to be consensual.

Consensual with those who are perceived also to slip across the wonder wall, take it to the extent of prize cries highs potencies ply the plunder who impreg latitudes to take time and love beyond shock of the real and cuts from rose of reason, as if to provoke – and suffer thru crash after crash, of evolute bottle works turning churning, sometimes call – wishing well curses.

The goods work me over like an invasion, for divine booty, out in the sacred territories of terms like warblers and their germs such as life is for love.


So far sticking with Illuviation Elegies. Not sure yet on “description.” Fateless Rhymes of a Lugubrious Singsong Hysteric. Redesigning poetry page. Which redesign – so far am only working on in my head.

Love and hate my rhymes. Rhapsodizing, obstinately obtuse, dreadful pompous craven fractal discantation encased in fairly simple rhyme structures.

Its great fun to pour disgust over your own work.

Cause rhymes is what they is. I fall into sculpting my way through inveterate journey-mongering, lacing thru mythic descriptives, over happenstance of sorrow, terror and love.

As if to release the tragedy from its prison riots of tenderness. By carving it into traditional rhythms like a worm over eons -still eating its way through same miraculous heat of perpetually de-composing flower bed, night soil, bonemeal. My wan “transmutational” vermiculture.

Lately I feel not Shelley but Poe breathing over my shoulder with half drunken love/hate/glee. He was a rhymer. I love counterintuitive theatrical rhymers with a penchant for beauty torment humor sorrow. That part of him that said – I spent this life mostly mad with a few breaks for sanity.

Let me see if I can track down the actual quote: “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Yes! thats it. Exactly.


Working on a new Title for Poetry –

Illuviation Elegies: lugubrious rhymes of a hopeless heretic.


First rework: poetry section?? Putting it all back up no matter how awful – simply to work on it. Going to rename. Dont know what.

The poetry is pretty brutal, cagey, ruthless, blind, beleaguered, reckless, wired, heartbreaking, hungry, stupid, spurious, parasitic, forlorn, awkward, reluctant, almost violently afraid of itself. Like some walking stiff.

There is mischief too, for rhyme of any kind, and love – for wild things. Yet its not trusted, poetry that doesn’t trust itself – deviously relegated to the tragic, the pathetic dribble of a wilding closet hysteric who is in love with — ?

Magical realists/realism, but as a crime? footless and bird caged – adorned in loathsome rhyme.

Stroking my chin – as this evening dawns, I had a pretty bad morning – wondering – aren’t there things here worth my getting thru to “the bottom” of – as if there is a bottom to anything.



Dreaming a rebuild this summer. Summer starts in two weeks.

Moved last 3 pieces to Tru Con. Aim – to finalize ten of them by end of summer, she wags her finger.

Perhaps, have a new Stinky story brewing, tentatively entitled Pissing and Missing, perhaps for Body of H8 with a Male Voice. That is incorrigible.

Pastiche – confides a lark – as a way of getting out of my own way, as a way beyond – thresholds of resistance.


New Tru Con, spun off of reading Zizek’s The Sublime Object of Ideology. 


Edited Glow & Yeux, Body of H8. Rim running usual topics.

Letting character names ruse & dote – without stopping it – as if sucking dopy up against PynchOn’s trial balloons for a humorous take at pronoun toppling, and yet still many ways all it does is massage death.

Effort is to transform pirate into reckoning with allures – and let that rotary seduce me as it turns almost of its own accord. That was the assumption.

Instead ended up tossing up as jokes. Somehow, f*ck*ll – working thru jokes that are affectionate and sometime stinky. Cant shake off stinky. Stinky initially gives me structure. Tho the “person” writing is different every time.

Am feeling theatre and schisms where language bends in after itself – stroking the divine. Temptations surge through others dial-it-in hose hairs – but its my absurdness.

For me rhyme is equiv to a tender coffin. Like I am working in a dead language – and it fits the crime.


Fingers whose weathervanes wag at me – enuff with the little girl lost routine. But its no use.

Babylon Burrows as a snapdragon, open and shut, open and shut, and little love hearts float float floating out of a heart-shaped lip-lined girl-in-heat prehensile-enchanted jaw.

End of summer do I send a Chapter to Special Branch  – ?? OO la la. Suddenly there is nothing nothing.

Figure somehow some way to push through emptiness – as a lush boozy froth, froth of brutal riotous yearnings, as a question of faith, complete as a whole book True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork –

Manage construct unt contract a REAL deadline. Maybe even publish a bit of it elsewhere too – Thru a publisher where it makes sense! I cant even go to a reading or a concert how do I get to a publisher. Think Think. Gurr. Write. “U fucks.” Rectitudinous overreaction  – blatantly tiresome sitting duck.

Bury for a summer she dreams every night god damn it these trembling bones institutionally among belongings of Cal Lowell‘s right-up-to-the-line  where kisses the pole – knit fits geographically aligned with his Garden of Angels – rough housing, snowballing.

Again and again he’d fall off, again and again, got back up on that hefty horse, often with aid of compassion –

No one to blame but myself for tadpole shrimp and ivory gull, for hibernaculum’s overwintering interrogations, she cries she cries for Sakakawea to arise. No help for a dead horse.

The dead horse stomps off, suffers a rebellion of fruit. Damn. Drinks gruel cruel cool funnel of blood to last of its bang on drop.

Hangs out sign at door by light that swings for you swings for you –

Simon Blue Niles, Greet Nation of Migrants and Strangers. Poke Ho Hauntus, speaks –

Pub rub grub sub hub flub dub stub – off you art to the philosophers tub, oo lala. Love stinks.

3.17.18 Happy Saint Bats

New Tru Con called Kissing the Wall. Is “hitting the numbers.” Up “at the top.” Its a gesture of freedom and yet – blasphemous. Captures the emergence of a brandy new stock – one who miraculously calls herself Glow Weeny. Very dear to me.

One must get it while one can! As between highly developed Descenders of Love – always – Love, License, Impossibility of the Absolute, Never Ending Death of a Salesman, Beauty & the Perseverant, Method & the Mind.

Down to the last drop. Ordered Sublime.


Instructional Videos. Getting used to hearing my own voice think. Oddly, its kind of marvelous, becoming entranced by the walkthrough of your own voice again and again till it doesn’t deviate.

Am up to second series, #6.


Finished 2nd translation from Perfume/Lacan Ink. Regnaut on l’autre parole.


Yesterday read Bowser the Hound by Thorton Burgess. Received as gift.


Reading bios, a cross section of 1) Vincent still & 2) Love life of Byron. How hunger grumbles and kneads, manifests in different greeds, creeds — luffing lyrical suffering holy roll-y does not heed.

Rhyming Lordy how I feed —

Byron! laid down, he laid right down, was it on Dante’s(??) grave in exiled Ravenna — have shared that need, where strikes deaths ransomed pose — succumbing as a violent rose and splendor casts its wake upon the feeble silence.

If only my heart to yield —


Updated piece called Funnel Cloud. Sketch & Fetch immediately started jumping up and down: they say its publishable. Yaddo.


Stinky and Pinky. Sketch and Fetch. Agents: double. Add dimension. Dont want to limit to two –

Things deflect into notes on violence, especially gun violence, as an image feed. Gun violence very big politics here. Sketch and Fetch are standins at the moment, at Neptune’s Grotto. Sardinia & her famous sardines.

Crash/scratch test dummies. I mean out in the farm-ecology of fiction. Wondering if I have the chops.

Early spindrifts are oft bleeding self conscious. Sub-lately, I wanna I wanna call them all triggerfish, for the tremble. In mist of Penny Dreadful. Instrumental under red sheet of Chinese Dragon. Caw caw caw –

In different keys or something.


Discussion with Brother Lowell turns to beauty of falling into chaos, what draws us there, that feeling of being out of constraints and a mind slipping into havoc, how at outset is a dalliance with weightlessness.

Also reading very hot Vincent Van Gogh Bio. Illusory, he had illusory relationships again and again that were his passion and his undoing. Along with everything else.

Translation Work!

Provided translation into English for a short piece by François Regnault, about his long friendship with Lacan’s daughter Judith.

V.I. Philosophy Journal called Lacan Ink. Honor they let me do it.