I might have missed the steady implication of the waves


Having come first to the fugue from a psychically dissociative fog of identity, I might have missed the steady implication of the waves upon the mind of winter. However, while sat in Russian symphony just last week – the concerto’s fugue ensuing like so or such or so – I, having thought the fog a formless space, a space less motion, merely adrift, was made informed by my uncle: were a fugue but a subtle and receding repetition – steady grounded ground if groundless over ground, which many other themes will pass & find themselves exposed.

The forever emptiness of ocean, somewhere therein, seems to lie a woven thisness, out of nothings, sure, but all in all. Depths seem made of layer on layer of empty surface & when snow licks near a sea, crashing is certainly the custom behind the dream of eardrum.

Fall, float, swell, churn, pummel, flow, fill, sulk, boil, wash, spill, eddy, rush, recede.

 There is nothing water will not do to quiet the eye of the I.
(There is nothing water will not do to quiet the I of the eye).



Horizon-al Noon!


Following I transcribe the scribbling I just done in your instructive constraint (expanse?) of body-write. Feel-ya as free as pigeon to do with as-ya May (ist almost June):

[first, I didn’t have the computer screen too near, I went out onto a stump sits by a house I sleep in, sat at the edge of a fire-pile (unlit) in among what’s mainly maples, but there’s other unknown leafs alimb, & many itchy bugs afoot. So I made a listing page of the contemplation, as directed, & though I was not asked to write again @ the very end, I made that also in my list of horizoning to-do’s. I had in me some unspoken imagining of the question, but now find I glanced at it much to my over-thinking-chagrin. Still there is something here, & since you asked me to be a poet, & since your writing on the horizon asks a poet to practice being a poet, & to share, this be the sharing thereof (in three sessions: 0 {pre-sit}, 1 {midsit-freewrite}, 2 {end-sit gathering moment})]


Some beginning symbols (what cobs my current web):
Making a nest with balloon dinosaurs & plastic fire-trucks.
Objects of Home – stones & photographs.
Horizon as Home – eternally present/ever-receding.
Constant distance.
Be on that distance.
A journey through the valley & the forest.


Nest                      Horizon                              Stone

Snapshot             Comfort                              Far/Body

Nose                     Knows                                  Being/Free

Notice                  Nothing                              Connect/Return



What cloud (could) there graze come,
Come, comme fat-breathed cow,
Lazing infinities of directed vision
Possess also, there, their peripheries, Horizons.

That which meets out with in
Ground with groundless


That which is met is met & meets
In me—

—to be within an on of distant met & meeting
—to place a pace across a facile nothing, a reaching-over-there,
—to shift eye inner earring gold ajangle inner in her hair hangs where,
caught up with you, so far-fetching scent of I

You carry an eye to my furthest I,
I, past your horizon, am on,
& so are meeting our meetings met not.

Ill-captivated linguas dazed & frazzle in withins
Cascading waffles sculpt-id soft of waffle-whats
In worded thought.

A line which is not, makes
Much as a circle or a capsized bowl,
Upon which marbley May roll my
Many nights of moon,
When the low oblong look—

She waistes, engorged, us seams of lightful eye
(seems light, full, I) (she gorgeous: we waits)

Remember, from the edge of naught & none-where comes
The nothing-waters crawling out my glints thereon a sun
I the self of son eyes selfly sun, I sumtimes dun,
Looking larger on the false off far
Than feathers of dust come drift
The air of light seeming light
As air in light, when eye,
Above, at my noonest raised,
Cast burns apparent absently
On the ape-skinned race at Home.

& of a sudden flickering out the edges in a mind’s why
A surrounding forest sudden still & wafting pungent
Greens & seems & seams & seems – obstructeroscuro:

The end of vision.

There is, in close collection of roots & roofs,
Some barrier to the separation on which I
The light in light, a light enlight, begun become
Become again

                               & still—unwitness of
the great “forever-in.”

Sapling boughs give way to deeper green canopies
Of high maple over bright vinyl sided Homes,
Lawn mower roams
In echoes of unseen other yards, time immotorable,
Among the finches perhaps is heard a mockingbird,
& how are we to know?

Body—heart & lung—take & fill
Unsatisfied with the complicated molecule,
Mixtures big as air—by peeling off at edges
Deals in the common tongue of flower & primate:

We are Penelope together in the language of the unseen loom,
Weaving & unweaving the air.
Wilting & reposing. The exchange is thus:
If she goes, I also go.

If nothing is not illusion, then no illusion is not real. A negation often begs for cancelation of the thought, but here. Is is not & is. Makes simpler the line of the equation & expands the field of its plotting. What is, is not. What’s not, is. Don’t be overdeposited with the desire to cast off the remainder of the thought. Though meaningless, it casts a light. A color close to blue: My horizon to my Home. Illusion of my distance, joined. Illusion of a closeness, coined, “where e’er my hat’s ahung.”

At Home I’m told lives comfort. On horizon, there is Home. What’s more: each is a nothing recedes when I’ve done a little more than be tempted to touch.

A nest consists.
(But the of  {deepens   in} the animal)
{depending on} the animal).



A Swim through Isaiah Berlin, “The Hedgehog and the Fox”

A “swim” is a compositional form, a hunting methodology, a meander, a derive within the space of a text, field notes on the physical realm of the page. Its relationship to erasure is evident, relevant, & coincidental: One chooses a place on the page to begin, a word or phrase or fragment. One chooses whether or not to predetermine a path or whether to follow a natural affinity (in the following case there are 5 sections following 5 distinct approaches to path on each of 5 pages). Something emerges, or doesn’t. Meaning is made, or isn’t. Relationships within the text observed may be rewired, expanded, unhinged, clarified. Relationship of reader to Text may be tested. Linked here and above is the PDF of the article in question.

1.(Path: A Diving Bounce)
There is –
Hedgehog knows –
More than that
by no mean[s],
but a poet of
the Fox.

2. (Ringlets)

in                                              way
or                                                                  or
moving              to            no      centr
coherent                                                              scattered
incomplete                                                                essense
unchanging                                               centrifugal


3. (submergent)
There he is, a pluralist.
Ask first & ask second, of fruitful relation,
great question opposites,
to find the figures at that protean pole:
Say the many from the many to say of varied’s own bearer thereby,
as being,
a prophet from the centre.

4. (adrift)
Somehow darkness makes us pause & view, nor can dark corners, by greater a fox – so (or more: either) it is our reply – less than whole: maybe unaware of the hypothesis, but a fox & his ideals have genius,
No one can doubt.
No one should.

5. (laps)
on obiter tracts, But emerges believed, some: This & some. Take to attempt reason rather than fate. Light it casts it on to sources, both motive to most in what letters, essays & stories, writings, social stories – private: between nowhere & paradox – his historical holding, in short, is serious.

I’m sorry I am as I am


I was recently reminded that a planet is a wanderer. “Is” somewaylike making the berry middle of the turnover. Planet.

Venus said once to me, in a bus hoarse creak, “sorry for the moon over bad hotels” & perhaps I thought, “good for you.” But it’s become obvious to me since then that what she really wanted to say was “I love you,” only this is a hard thing to mean & say simultaneously.

I’m sorry I am as I am: Planet.

Mars frumped. Has been frumpy. Like some middle-aged detective in a murder mystery in Iceland or Denmark. Lens flares & open landscapes half-palmed-over with ice-white stones. Wondering the spit of self. His daughter probably has issues with him. Whose mother no longer worries in the pillow–found her own way without him. There is only the wandering mystery to sooth. & a windshield under electronic drones. The almostfreeze beading by the slow wiper windshield. Lingering red light.

A wink that doesn’t mean to wink.

My grandfather’s clock was left on Crete in a bloated oak crate in the sun. So I don’t know what time it is, nor how we get from here to Rome to home (to Florence I think by Elephant wing). Still, when there is chiming, we delight in the design. All the many molten hearts of Italy, an ember to the amber of our planet names (poets, all on island time, remember the long tick of the bubble in Boulder, & how do we find ourselves in America? We wander!

A shame if not to also wonder).

Yes there are long oceans between the flesh & what beats in it. Water the color of the warring planet. Just one of your bloodcells wanders further in a day than you will in a year, wanders further in a year than you will in your lifetime, further in your lifeline than Mars would dare dream. Within is the greatest drift of

heaven & earth & human.

I don’t mind the backward slide of Mercury. But I love the apeswing vine chide on the channels’ for-always-ness of nightlights in their mumbles.

It’s true: water just comes right out of the sky & wets us for no good reason, but don’t worry, Neptune governs the clouds with a dry writ. “I shall be in a trench,” he whispers, with the bulb-based tooth-fish, pretending.

Water for the hair on my head today. Water for the blue blood of a gas giant. One year is a single beat of the big fat heart of the sun. Here we are to stay. At home. Resting. Still. (This is how we know we are really travelling about at an infinity of directions at once, at all velocities possible: that we imagine there is a stillness & covet it’s return to our beings. A womb, of course, is a relative thing.)

I have been to a body space, now, ful, & what a good bello-ing song. Of course! It’s our dogs that dig for us. & of course they don’t quite know it’s for us. Bury whatever seems most ours for us. A simple urgency to keep the thing safe. Why so West? I could ask you. But, then, when I ask myself, Why Portugal? Why Lisbon? I sense the answer better by not knowing it. Because the ocean & the moon. Because the sailors know. Because because. The ocean in my town is like the ocean in my body. & I love the call to body that a body space ful gives.

In the space of home, whatever that means to you.

Whatever that means to me? I wonder if I will spend forever on this “whatever,” or if I ought to just comply to the object in the sentence. It means “whatever” to me: now shall I sit in whatever and be with my body & listen to what it has to say & not-say. Now shall I say with my body what I heard & not-heard.



(the everybody word)


Long ago, I wrote a two-chord song for a girl in a window in Angers, France, & I called it Window. The two chords have since remained my favorite combination of sounds on a guitar. Windows have since remained at the center of my poetic inquiries. The woman & I shared a story for many years after; it’s a story I am continually trying to tell, & that the standard & multifarious approaches to communicating it always seem to come up short has been a frustrating & joyous catalyst for endless creative endeavor. Here is one:

I wish to combine the performative forces of the creative spontaneities I have practiced to date, the persistent symbols that drag me from one medium to the next, a philosophy of process—based somely in actual theory and mostly in my lazy ear (I will call it the un-naming of the birds)—into a film. Film, of course, combines all the arts & so, so far as combinatory efforts go, it is the formally fittingest one.

I begin in the felt sense. I hate the term felt sense. What other kind of sense is there? But it’s a term. A name. I love names. I love to imagine things without names & so I give the animals whose names I have learned a new name—there was a white feathery beast near a dock on a river in Tequila, Texas, whose name I could pronounce, Heron. But this seemed wrong. I like the word Heron & it goes well with the bird, but it seemed wrong. I felt like Heron stole the creature’s little heartbeat, made a guilded frame in a hall of portraits in a mausoleum of all the many wild & mysterious things that need no longer be understood or considered. In a very real sense, the naming of a thing does something to its vital & dynamic nature that can be beautiful, communicative, haunting, liberating in a lot of ways, but it’s hard to ignore the manner in which a name seems also to steal a thing’s essence… more accurately, probably, is that gaining a name steals this essence in me: obscures my capacity in ever-increasing layers to perceive a oneness in all things (while simultaneously increasing my mental map of how to conceptualize this ecliptical phenomenon (it’s confusing; regardless, I want to understand the creature, & the method of understanding it which has me calling it “Heron” is not the kind of understanding I want)—not the everybody word, but a momentary feeling, unique & unrepeatable, I might notice where I am standing, how the thing is moving; I love to hear animals breathe, I love to notice the sound of breath, when the sun is bright & I am breathing & the animal is breathing & I am lazy & she is lazy & it’s morning. This is the kind of thing I mean. Observation less taken as a naturalist for the purposes of categorizing, cataloguing for future study along the two-name grounds, although I must admit to loving this way of looking at creatures & plants also, but in an attempt at some universal empathy between myself & bird-thing, me-thing, water-thing, air-thing, thing-being-thinking-thing-breathe-thing-me-you-me-thing thing. Here we are. Here I am. This is the moment of the birdthingmething I think. It becomes sort of regressive & simple to talk about. Talking about it isn’t the thing that really makes it. Talking about it is something like the second or third or 29th or 29-thousanth thing I do, it’s pretty far removed from the experience, the perception of the experience, the reflection, the feeling of the reflection. Talking about it is another kind of animal; it’s also an animal I can breathe with, just not the animal I’m breathing with by the water. Talking about it can give an idea of the texture & the value of having the experience; maybe I learn something else, explaining it, but mainly I think it has the force of proverb, or, worse yet, just plain obviousness. “It’s nice to be near a bird & the water,” can seem pretty unworthy saying as a thing with any kind of having added to understanding. But it IS nice to be near a bird & the water. So go do that. Maybe…

I digroos.

Mainly I am excusing myself for not learning the names of my two chords—not filling my head with jargon about windows, not calling a woman from a window in France “wife” or “ex,” nor attempting to fill a grief & a joy surrounding my experience of her experiences with easily compartmentalized clinical terms, not naming a state of being “depression” so as to see myself as a malady, not internalizing rules of thirds & acts & dialogue & such, so as to formulate. Formulae are helpful. My formula is not this formula. It’s more of a dream. More of a breath by the water in the sun & a creature breathing there too. I defend.

Let I now defenestrate the defense.

Applicable theory for this exists, not least of which Kerouac’s spontaneous prose & Chogyam Trungpa’s Dharma Art & uncontaminated first glimpse & Ginsberg’s notice-what-you-notice/ first-thought-best-thought, but I want to talk about process at the moment.

Not knowing the name of the chord makes it mine in some way like a dream belongs only really to its dreamer. I can feel guilty about not knowing it as well; this limits my exploration of like sounds. Well, there are limitations. So be it. & this may explain what took me so long to learn anything about my two chords, or help to explain why what I am now learning about them is something I feel uniquely suited to. Why I want to express about them: my personal/universal/breathing/vital connection to their expressive qualities in me.

Recently I had been playing that old song again to see if I could remember it. I know I might sit & flog my mind in recollecting each word, but for the time was-ing, I wanted to see what I recalled without too much straining. “It was here. Now it’s gone away,” rests as the final, melodic line, & was somewhat mysterious to me at the time of composition. I was writing not to my sense of loss, but to my hopes, & yet there was this line at the end: “I want to be there, but I don’t want to be there. It was here. Now it’s gone away.” It haunted me, irked me. Well. I recalled the song mostly, but it was gone. After a few days peppered between other sorts of days where I would strum the song & feel like I understood this final sentiment… finally… I took an afternoon & taught myself a scale in the octave containing the two chords of the song. So now I know where my hand can go on the neck of the guitar to enclose & expand the two sounds. They are a bright series of chords. Daylight in its best hours. Quiet. Listless. Full. Outside. But I don’t know the name of what my hand, here, is. Someone will eventually tell me, I imagine. Maybe not.

I practiced within this octave exclusively for close to a month, hopefully gaining an intuitive relationship with the instrument, the sound, my body, the textures of feeling & sense that accompany me in the exploration, some agility, some wordless, un-named bird about a window (in front of which I play, when I have played). & now I have begun to record & expand still further. Here is the project:

Utilizing only the sounds (tones, notes, chords, vocalities) available to the Window Octave, I record my spontaneous explorations (but sometimes directed: as in, “this time I will play only one note at a time for 5 minutes” or “this time I will play three chords I like together, one at a time, for five minutes each,”  & I hope to find myself playing one note for an hour or an afternoon, or devoting an entire day to it, but the expression is spontaneous—not previously rehearsed, per se), afterward placing the sounds on editing software &, maintaining the tone of each sound, I manipulate according to an exploratory process, just whatever feels right: paul-stretch, tempo-shift, reverb, bass reduction-amplification, clipping, reversing, all hell loose, I think, for now. Perhaps something akin to the one-note method will find itself in use at some point, but for now I find variety helps. Sometimes I will then listen in meditation & feel a vocalizing potential. If so I will do the same with the vocals as I do with the notes. I find deep natural connectivity in the expression/exploration.

Each track moves very little in the linear sense, and perhaps rather than a song, what I have is a sound-scape. I’m still getting comfortable in the process & I don’t want to tell it what to be.

My aim is to end up with several hours of sound that can be then the basis for compositional sessions, conducted also in spontaneously directed method (i.e. “window”…”go”) sometimes writing, sometimes sketching, following the dreamwriting form of spontaneous prose I developed for my project, The Red King, while living in Boulder, Colorado. I’ve written much toward this process & perhaps I’ll bring that into this process write at some point. Seems unnecessary at the moment, but worth noting it follows generally the un-naming principle I’ve named here-above. Here-upon I will compose a film. From sound-scape to dreamwrite to photograph to film, I do not plan to follow a purely linear progression. That is, dreamwrite requires sound-scape, film-composition requires dreamwrite, etc., but I don’t plan to wait for the full soundtrack to start writing, nor the full collection of dreamwrites in order to write or storyboard or even film the film. I will go as it seems necessary, recognizing one is not the other, recognizing one is strongly integrated in the other, recognizing that this integral nature is not binding.

What I am doing is many things. I am doing one thing at a time. I am doing things together, one at a time, together. Finding. Having the dream & telling it as a function of having it.

This serves to integrate several activities I see as my artistic skill-set, thereby giving me a singular focus for them all—keeping me, hopefully, engaged, rather than scattered, about (at least several of) my creative debts.