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@muchmoresny Rock n roll vagrant #nightlife #citylife #city #dance #punk #work #video #love #music #brooklyn #brooklynmusic #thishauntedeverything #egoscriptor #newyork #newmusic #newyorkmusic (at Muchmore's)

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William Blake
What I learned from fishermen
The grieve is mixing powder with the Lent.
Lent all smogged by powder in the grieve.
(a curly breath.)
...................................................................
The windows all dismayed by what of how.
The how dismayed by the what of the windows.
(a smoking teeming wind.)
......................................................................
Looking out at why to see it how.
The how it seeing why to looking out.
(a gallivanting air all lurking about.)
...................................................................
O sinister smog,
O fisherman boat,
swept out to sea by
the venomous blood of whales,
we sweep a million ashes from thine eyes
to view the penetration deep below.
........................................................
O fisherman wind,
O smoggish sea,
what grieves thee?
What listening makes thine eyes so glowed.
........................................................................
To humanize the decentralized. Hoggish. Such windy currents and smoky blows. The sunlight never entered the killer king. His energy comes from afar below.
.......................................................................
To decentralize the human?
Such blows of steel and wind?
Lost at sea! Bent on pearls!
The facer dreams of better wino hurls!
The hurl of the ocean dream!
........................................................
A MIRACULOUS RETREAT:
The poet made the fisherman a liar in the making.
The making made the liar a fisherman in the poet.
..........................................................................
Still we face the waves with heroic harpoons,
the storm building (inner and outer) as the
first mate sings a shanty to the bowels of the sea, dropping out.
.............................................................................................
Drop,
drip,
drop,
below,
the
dripping
of the
dropping
above.
..................................................................
Drop
dead,
(the fishermanpoet makes a ship to seize) !
.................................................................
BENDING THE WIND
O mason jar of pondy scum!
O making of the scummy pond!
(flies flying in the flaggish air of sprinkles of fate)
Loot the lagging behind!
Root for the lagging ahead!
Thine eyes bent not for windy scum of breath-air,
Thy body not appropriated for the sandy misty landfoe.
Why not just….bend the wind?
......................................................................................
A RETURN
Coming through
the cycle of the wave,
the fishermanpoet sees the twirl of
salt among the sea
and breathes the bodied ocean in a bubble
of bracing the dire
ice
lead
king.
Reinventing Language
In order to reinvent language and use it more efficiently in the modern age of Art, we must reorder words and thus change their connotations. We can rearrange sentences blindly, or we can do it purposely and purposively. That is not to say that random rearrangement cannot LEAD to purposeful rearrangement. After all, how random is random? Burroughs spent years doing cut-ups with Brion Gysin in order to separate words from their denotations and create new connotations for words. Take for instance this cut-up from “The Ticket That Exploded”:
Hassan I Sabbah: “Last round over-Remember I was the ship gives no flesh identity-lips fading-silence to say good bye-“ See the action, B.J.? This Hassan I Sabbah works for Naval Intelligence and…Are you listening B.J.?”
Many new word associations, metaphors and connotations can be derived from this paragraph. Take for instance the phrase “flesh identity”. How often has that phrase been used? Yet so much of who we are is determined by what we look like in our minds. I also like the idea of “lips fading” and “silence to say good bye”. Who has ever described lips as “fading” besides Burroughs? Yet an expression on the lips can certainly have the appearance of fading sometimes.
Traditional English professors may not like the idea of abandoning grammar all together. Yet what is grammar but a set of contrived rules developed in order to communicate better? These rules have grown stale and predictable. In order to communicate MORE effectively in the modern age of Art, one must abandon these rules and say NEW THINGS. I made this cut-up the other day:
Their investing success create a merry message Faccone began tracking and Federal Trade Commission remember the father who had died At Home in a House of Horrors Not that the details of your upbring-Brooklynites who knew Ms. Streisand back when remi-worships to fill the gaps for ALMI’s rent from American Girl. Continued on Page 4 Flashing Lights and Thrashing Music in a Search for Order and Chaos Shop from your iPad with the SEVEN PSYCHOPATHS Music Business/Management (MB/M) Department Chair Don F.T.C. Said to throw up a thicket of mid Sentimental Job Business Day stopped when Chachi married controversy, having grow free, if you call right now. And example, something vulgar into a About U.S. Schools HERE Returns and exchanges: To return any item, follow the four months, led lower Wyatt contributed reporting. through the Doll Hospital. The perfect message is free of charge for both To Prepare For Lawsuit Vs. Google NOW PLAYING IF YOU CAN’T BEAT THE SYSTEM…CHANGE IT. say, the F.T.C. staff recommend and activities, plus our newest products. we do not see these develop to a laugh. Jones shook his head. Be bold and go for the victory or be Billy Martin use it was too uncomfortable help. The roads were dusty and for some time, at least lower than In general, the report praised added, “Indeed, we see positive proper human-animal interaction policy measures being taken in it was beginning a program Tyson said auditors would program in global enter Department Chair who founded the Janek Gwisdala ’00, and John Mayer
By placing words generally not placed next to each other NEXT TO EACH OTHER, new associations and connotations are created. Take for instance the father “who had died at home in a house of horrors,”, or shopping “from your iPad with the seven psychopaths”. Can commercialism be described as a kind of psychosis? What vulnerabilities made the home a “house of horrors” for the father who died and HOW did they kill him? New ideas and characters can be created by random cut-ups which can then be implemented in more traditional narrative or verse. Don’t worry, grammarians, I don’t plan to give up on the rules right away. Even Burroughs didn’t do that.
Additionally, words that exist as exclusively one type of speech can be utilized effectively, perhaps even more effectively, as another type of speech, and the connotation would be completely different. Take for instance the word “live.” Both the denotations and connotations associated with the word “live” are different that those associated with the word “life”. So let’s say something about “live” as if it were a noun. I performed this set of experiments with verbs the other day:
Live is wish fight dagger world penetrable.
Wear is strong word misty right palpable.
Might would paint bird tight wood passable.
Could is aim true darn right palatable.
I probably got a little ahead of myself by experimenting with both multiple verbs, multiple nouns and multiple adjectives simultaneously, but the idea is there. I may have to go back and think about each word individually. Experiments like this free up the mind to think about words, ideas and symbols in a different away. Comparing “live” to a dagger is especially poignant to me, having suffered from depression for years and being able to understand how “live” could be like a “dagger”. This may not be apparent to someone without the illness, but using the word “live” instead of “life” makes this symbol more clear. Both words have a sharp sound. The connotations I have with “live” as opposed to “life” concern existing fiercely and vivaciously. These connotations immediately pop into my mind when I think of “live” by itself. By further comparing it to “dagger”, I exacerbate this connotation.
You might say “This is all very well and good, but how can this experiment become an actual poem?” Just like this: Start by inserting words (in “incorrect” states of speech) with certain connotations into sentences as different sets of speech. Do this sparsely, with rather traditional sounding verse. Look at E.E. Cummings for example:
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Sounds rather normal doesn’t it? Cummings is simply using words’ different connotations and associations in order to utilize them as different parts of speech.
The tradition exists for a reason, and completely abandoning it would be as illogical as simply abandoning law because one wants to do whatever one wants. The next order of business is to invert or “pervert” traditional form to make it new. This can be done while maintaining a sense of rhythm and overall aesthetic. Take this section of a poem I wrote today:
Traced a line so curvy as to be a sword,
(lightness, lightness, cure as light)
When I understood it was naught but the holy word,
(heavy, heavy, spur the fight)
Fighting for the endless utter epigrams
(matchless, matchless in the sky)
Lifting off the ground the roots of emblem sand
(darkness, darkness, roots of lies).
The lines not in parentheses are all iambic pentameter. The lines in parentheses are trochaic. Both follow a pattern of end-rhymes and work as parallel themes, creating a synthesis of rhythm, pattern and idea.
To put all this together is the end-goal. I’m still on the path….

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Poetry and Form
The dynamic influence of iambic pentameter. Experimenting with various forms gives me fuller breath, more familiarity with the traditions. You can’t make an avant-garde painting without understanding color/form’s function. Even free verse is not free. Pound wrote Sapphic poetry straight out of Greece but modernized it, tweaked it, made it more contemporary. To combine the free-flowing with rigid form is the idea. Or bold ideas with traditional arrangement. To intersperse various forms: villanelle, sonnet, terza rima, with prose poems, create a bold new form of verse. That’s the ticket. The function of rhythm in poetry is to create music. Traditionally, poetry was sung with a lute. “The Odyssey” was memorized and people listened. Hard to find the same music in translation but it can be approached. Pound did it with the anonymous poem “The Sea-Farer”. When music and poetry are combined, sublime art is born. This will bring me closer to pure art in both my poetry and songwriting. We are bred into iambic pentameter. A baby in its mother’s womb has rhythm, and we speak in this rhythm made popular by Shakespeare, with slight variations. My Shakespeare professor played us a recording of the beating heart from inside a womb. Shakespeare did not write completely in iambic pentameter though. He let the verse flow and breathe. To combine iambic rhythms with rhythms from the street, like Whitman, is the key. To remove Victorianism from the speech of poetry is the goal. It’s what the modernists did. Victorianism is elevated, dead, unreal. It has a certain type of music, but the modernists came closer to beauty than did the Victorians. The real, the ever-present, the deeply personal symbolic is what I strive for. This does not make verse easy but ever challenging. “Hang it all, Robert Browning,” said Ezra Pound. The Victorian verse methods worked for their time, but we are in a different age. Eliot is more relevant today than Tennyson. Eliot said that one of poetry’s functions was to escape from emotion and personality. This is its transcendental function. Must be careful not to drown in misery and joy in my poetry. “Get drunk!” sings Baudelaire. “On wine poetry or virtue…” This is a different kind of drunkenness than slovenly sloppiness. It is an enlightened drunkenness. A different kind of elevatedness. More than excitement, enthusiasm, even bliss. It can only be expressed through music/poetry. To sing within the confines of a verse form is perhaps the most challenging of all arts. Dylan Thomas did it sublimely in his famous villanelle:
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I had a girlfriend who had the famous line “Rage, rage against the dying of the light” tattooed on her. Her interpretation was banal. She took it as a kind of literal nihilism that death was the end and that bare excitement was the only thing worth living for. This poem is instead a kind of life-affirming tribute to a dying man…the nihilists are too black-and-white…Life itself affirms the existence of God. We have only to listen.
But not to get sidetracked. The point was to demonstrate the fluidity of writing within a rigid structure. Thomas uses various kinds of iambic meter in this poem, and some non-iambic, yet he achieves this within a strict form. I mean even Ginsberg makes use of techniques like anaphora in his great poem “Howl”. There is a repetition and form to his free verse:
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull…
In this sense, his structure ALLOWS him to be free. Ginsberg is an even more radical Whitman. I see him as a conglomerate of Whitman and Blake actually. He has Blake’s religious epic scope and Whitman’s freedom. The celebration of the body with divine intentions. He was a Buddhist but he still fucked.
Rimbaud achieved complete freedom with the prose poem and created his own personal symbolism. “Illuminations” is perhaps his greatest achievement. It is beyond analysis but makes perfect sense to what he was feeling in the moment, and this is perhaps the greatest achievement of poetry.
Meanderings
I think I am experiencing wilderness in a most sudden way, that frosty icy chill of morning (mourning) when the grass gleams and the still air wind grips the skin in a most refreshing cool way. What say the dead of Hades? Dead from meningitis at forty. What a waste. What says the world of Earth? I think the stink of politicians feeds the masses with something like shame-just like the Catholics. Strange how they teach us to save our bodies but to be ashamed of their functions. A contradiction. Humans are full of contradictions. In fact, one might not know that I could be thinking something completely different from what I am writing at the present moment. We cannot blame the Catholics then. The pope could be all-holy and we'd never know the difference. Scientology could be accurate. The point is, read "The Cloud of Unknowing."
What medieval memories cut through the currents of our religiophobic society? I think they had something then? What does science say about our souls? Perhaps when I am eighty-five (if I make it that long) I will care something about the state of my body but for now I smoke away. Burroughs polluted his body with drugs in an anti-Christian rant. Like Pound, he believed that the ancient religions were superior to the Christian faiths. Perhaps polytheism has something, for human beings are complex characters and cannot be defined by a single characteristic. But I love my Augustine. And St. Teresa. St. John of the Cross. The mystic strain of Christianity has been forgotten. "Morality is a weakness of the brain."-Arthur Rimbaud. Spirituality is not about following an ethical code but freeing the soul from the binds of the ego. Somehow it was distorted along the way. Sure, love comes along with it, but only as a result of complete letting go, acceptance of all that Is. Love is not the goal, but one of the results.
"That is no country for old men"-Yeats. I feel as though I have been through a billion lifetimes with limited progress. Stuck in the cycle of samsara. Maybe cats have it right. I want Ginsberg's receptivity. Flowers made him cry. Quiet beauty. And the sadness of growing. Thinking back on childhood is like looking through a lens at a distant shore. The struggle to return. One of Pound's Chinese cantos says "Respect a child's faculties/From the moment it inhales the clear air,/But a man of fifty who knows nothing/Is worthy of no respect." Thoreau said something similarly. Like the old should be killed or something like that. Metaphorically speaking of course. Their ideas you know. If they've learned nothing, throw it all away.
Summaries are difficult at the end of meanderings.
The burden lifts
The burden lifts and butterflies
garner strength, lifting their
wings upward toward the
setting sun, allowing winds
to blow in factions and
strain themselves to flow
easily down the routes of
the highway road, the pink
horizon painting a
portrait of the sighing tongue,
no longer lisping,
and shining its light like
a glow-bulb hallucination,
a reflection of an inner winding
down that makes an imprint
on the blueprints of our
bashful whimsy.
The petals fall
The petals fall
from beauty’s
dark crescent,
a lunar blossom
reaching skyward
amidst the city squalor.
Remnants of sexual glory
remnants of sexual glory. the fast path to decrepitude. the chase leads me nowhere. I am seeking nothing but the momentary halo. this is not the second that I imagined it would be. this is too much work. freedom freedom freedom. calls me like the lily in the field. what was it Whitman said? I celebrate myself. celebration involves flying. there is no way to continue in one direction for more than five minutes. it’s easy to write someone off as a bitch. in a fog we dream of great things. the mist has lifted. symptoms of death target me like a spectre. still the stadium awaits me. what was it Lennon said about dying at forty? he did die at forty. foreshadowing. not enough rest. too much sobriety. seven months ago I was a mess. now I’m healthy. give me some time I just need a little time. what lyric is that? puzzles in my headpiece. I can’t rest. we’ll all lose our hair. someday I’ll look like him. we never face death. just let me rest awhile. just awhile. there is too much blood. I am simply existing. out of the place of turmoil. standing on the water. miracles? what miracles? haven’t felt it yet. it is just a state of being. it is blowing for me today. the wind. it’s not close enough. there is no far off wisdom. it is right here. it is all I can see. it is right in front of me. steps to celebrate nothing. nothing is the eternal. waiting for nothing. seeing for nothing. saying goodbye is the hardest part. fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Pope said that. I am alone with the wind. I said that.
on the train. places seek partners for wishes of wisdom. drink of wine and a cigarette. it takes time to accept. accept what? shrug. the witch is ‘round the fire. death is a custom. takes two to tangle. working up to something. stepping towards something. the pull towards nothing is what. the sacred habits? the distorted thinking? bad habits come back? laziness? stepping inside. it’s too much to deal. fuck the wishes of men. I just want to leave it away. I am stepping alone. I don’t want to deal.
tears. pent-up yearnings. hotels of years and bubbles of frost revealing themselves at the surface. it is not so much that I want perfection but that I want a veil to cover the molten core. it is too tired to tell. the world leaves its scar on the soul. I am simply uttering words spoken for years and years. what became of them before? nothing new. just the same old game. weariness. loveliness. and falling. it is a game of falling. a mockery.

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Wives and mothers
Wives and mothers
have no relevance
in an age of backing down.
...............................................
The mood of a color
has more resonance
than any math equation.
.....................................
Distinct visions of
outer turmoil require
a gritting of teeth in
a prism of rectangular stations.
...................................................
And she was just the
dust of angles,
the colored motion
of infinite answers.
....................................
Inside the museum,
glasses peak at
energetic depths
..................................
to form a miracle
out of history,
leaving lips to
..............................
kiss a reptile’s bone,
the bone she caught
between teeth and tongue.
..............................................
And in a lisp she squeams,
under the electric eel.
-Greg A. Tallent (2011)