Took a crazy tumble on “a” ice patch, first thing yesterday. And continue’d with my usual mock-perfect day, mark-up shit, proofing shit, getting the local brainpan neurons—a shy bunch—to hug the walls—like wallflowers!—of my cranial cave with a high-decibel onslaught of Dr. John and the ’Fess. What band was that at Tipitina’s circa 1982 or so? Azuma? Dude ’d got a big old straw hat with robin’s egg blue boa-feathers lopping out of it. Erm, several bourbons ‘m’ water (I named ’m BMWs) later—I only “alternately” upright—my buddies told me they’s going to abandon me in the projects “for fish bait.” Oh dear. I think I must’ve made it back to the barricaded First and Magazine digs where the lizards ran crazy on a large glass-front’d bookcase, which latter object seem’d anomalous in the “setting.” I’d better get “back” to the Point. After a—I insist, “mock-perfect”—day I stood to trail my 300 trillion cells (only two of which are “still” “encoded” for “memory”)—my body—off to the “Blake Center,”—not that Blake, not that Blake, not that Blake—where in the late flop of orange-sized sun into the bushel basket of the West—the buses congregate. And howl’d monstrous, dragging a leg the size of a bawling heifer calf. That’s what “resting it” ’ll do.
Jim Harrison on how the natural world siphons off the “self” (exactly like the buoyancy of writing—head a fine gaseous membrane held “up” and “together” by the merest “surface tension,” the words tumbling down in rows).
In northern Michigan it is frequently cold in the summer, or too hot with clouds of mosquitoes, blackflies, horseflies, deerflies, wasps, and hornets. But it was wild, crisscrossed by old logging roads, and properly used to adolescent exhaustion the natural world can draw away your poisons to the point that your curiosity takes over and “you,” the accumulation of wounds and concomitant despair, no longer exist. The immediate world for hours at a time becomes quite beyond self-consciousness.~
Bracken—source of fiddleheads. Crawling around under the thick continuous umbrella of that bracken understory in late summer. Sweet fern’s dark waxy serrate leaves, with a dope-look. One whiff and I’m nine years old again.
Nota bene: Duchamp, fiddleheads, “Spiral Jetty”! Just a couple days back I huzzah’d Steve Evans for a terrif untidy bundle of relations and sorts. Here, though, is the king’s scratch, the big snook. What a notational / relational weave of particulars can do to freshen up the synapses!
“To be open to chance, as others are open for business.”
Green Mountains Review, Vol. XVII, No. 2, edited by Neil Shepard ($9.50, Johnson State College, Johnson, Vermont 05656)
Of note in a fattish number: a poem by “Goldbarth”—as is append’d top of page. Surely a proofreader’s error—though the thought cross’d (snuck, dragging a belly-laugh by its thrashing dubious heels) my “mind,” that “Albert”’s making an early play for immortality à la Picasso. Christo. Madonna. Cher. Bono. (Not that Bono.)
Milking I am, “one” thinks, or nursing (all the long drawn-out taffy years) th’obsequiousness Goldbarth (unjustly!) seem’d to expect—bonus baby style—out of “us” at Cornell circa 1975 or so. Stalking around like a popsicle king, full of hisself. There was that after-the-reading (Jon Anderson, I think?) bash where A. G.’d (not that A. G.) taped up behind the commode a nude “study” (I shouldn’t dignify it so) of ’s current undergrad squeeze. “We” went into heavy-harassment mode.
Not an assessment of the mag. Paul Violi’s in the mag. Dara Wier’s in the mag.
Note to myself: look out for Gerald Bruns’s new The Material of Poetry: Sketches for a Philosophical Poetics, out of Georgia.
Off to Washington. A week or ten days. Ahoy!