hatstuck snarl

theoretically, a hairstyling salon


Here's an interesting article by Renana Brooks on Bush's "dependency-creating language" which she breaks down into "empty language," "personalization," and "negative framework."

And what about this move by Hart Seely to portray Donald Rumsfeld's patronizing evasions as poems? Somehow, it just doesn't strike me as funny. Seely refers to Rumsfeld's "work" as "dedicat[ed] to the fractured rhythms of the plainspoken vernacular, [and] reminiscent of William Carlos Williams'... [while his] gift for offhand, quotidian pronouncements are as entrancing as Frank O'Hara's." This decontextualization of Rumsfeld's snide and often rude dismissives seems to me repugnant when considered against his political affiliations and responsibility for those who have lost and who continue to lose their lives due to his machinations.


check out Cristina Rivera's blognovela
Respiration, I might make it my business.
the commerce of scientific research
where the money comes from
and the influence of profit motives
on how scientific "knowledge" accumulates

what's found where what's sought
and what we see in the mirror as
driven by certain expectations
brought to that mirror
from Don Byrd's The Poetics of the Common Knowledge this:

"Indeed, mind itself is a gross simpification, the substitution of a schematic image for a rich participation in the articulation of living space."

mind indeed, a denial of nervous velocity, a physical integration and unlimited to something found only between the ears

plus a circulation of air

factor puff plus nervous input

a cumulative ism
Here's a fairly recent interview with Robert Fisk which offers an on the ground account of the current situation in Iraq.

Why do we hear nothing from Afghanistan?

I heard an interesting BBC report from Afghanistan about three weeks ago, but other than that, almost nothing.

A Brit reporter was hanging out with some US GIs as they prepared for and went on patrol. They loaded their weapons and said the war wasn't over, that they needed to be ready for anything. Then they drove into an Afghan village and asked in English if the inhabitants had seen any strangers passing through.



According to the death clock I died last September 22.

I stole the link from Nada Gordon

and hadn't previously noticed my spectral state.

I suppose this is my reward for being extra pessimistic.

Make room, Eileen, the boneyard's where it's happening!

That looks kind of wretched.
Actually, yesterday's pre code test enabled me to manipulate word placement more than I realized at first, so I'm going to try it again with another piece from Shaking the Pumpkin. I'll try to make it appear onscreen as it appears on the page (39).



E h ganeewa ganeewaha i
E e f
F s
R l ganeewa ganeewaha h
I e e
E g
N g s
D i ganeewa ganeewaha h
L n o
Y g u
s l
W ganeewa ganeewaha d
A c
R o
N u m
I l ganeewa ganeewaha o
N d c
G k
S b
T r u
H n (I mean this woman) s




That didn't work very well.
The vertical alignment gets skewed somehow. This seems to have something to do with the vertical spacing.

It's all much more precise in the book, but I guess that I'm unable to reproduce it for now.


This blogging is weird. I'm trying to think I'm not me.

I like the feeling, though by this I don't mean to imply that I dislike being me.

It's more like I am trying to feel like how it must seem to somebody else to read what I write here.

That's not quite right, how reading this might sound in the head to another person, as if I am not myself, but you, perhaps.
For some reason(s) I have yet to discover, the "pre tag" refuses to behave.

On the other hand, it's an improvement on left margin default and/or simple indentation.

It seems long lines, or those idented too far risk collision with whatever margin reigns on the right.

I wonder why the wide open spaces follow? I'm not sure yet how to be more specific, since the wide open spaces might shift over time.

It's all very curious.

I'll just have to fool around with this some more.

It's nice to see Bill Allegrezza in blogboro.
testing the "pre tag"

one comes along to condemn the invention of hours


now that we haven’t
one comes along to condemn the invention of hours
nothing belonging

and that’s what they called him

of some thousand screamers
on the job

some of which are convicted felons
screamers with criminal records
who lied on applications

only about one half complete and leading to this exchange
these screamers
who must be eliminated
keeping gum and bumps off the

the planes when identified one kick ass

flapper jack’s got a tin can

slapdash singular pieces I am punching
the numbers
my end one
one emergencies
into the telephone
don’t know
some of us don’t even have TVs and haven’t


savings layered on ice
no number other

I keep returning
to specifics what


I have the weird feeling that everybody except for me knows what an "Iron Cannibal Cap" is.

I keep seeing this in my banner ads.

I guess it's part of the circus.
Actually, I don't know Ron Padgett at all. I just assume his smile is upside down from his photo found on the rear dust jacket flap of his Selected Poems.

I just love this book.
I’m convinced that poetry comes fully equipped to do battle with Bush/Cheney and their ilk, and it might do so by erecting a circus.

But I think I must be the world's slowest writer, so I will need to have some help with this, please?

You are all so wonderful and I want to thank everyone very much.

Okay, um, where was I?

I'll have to get back to you on this. Oh,

here's some more thoughts on "Euphues," but it kind of ends up hanging. It could go on forever almost, but further thoughts will have to wait.

The thing is, I have other stuff which needs my attention, washing the dog etc, and tomorrow I'll have the day off, from blogetics that is.

Anyway, until Friday, this will have to suffice:

Well, I woke up in the middle of the Monday/Tuesday night with further thoughts of Padgett’s “Euphues” as an antithesis to Lyly’s verbal hemorrhage of the same name, and I knew then not only that I could have put forth a greater effort for a poem I so much admire, but likewise that I should. Padgett utterly deflates Lyly’s bathetic pretentiousness and then eclipses it with a poem which is accessible to anybody willing to have a little fun, and in doing so, he gives us a text with a generative force exponentially greater than the sum of its parts.

How about that hot dog offered as some kind a prize? Funny gets funnier at the mere mention of this food and all it implies, such as community outdoor picnics, or baseball games, but anybody can fill in the blanks. At this point the poem might easily be ruined by a demand for more detail, the cheering of fans perhaps, the reader/author as conquering hero (gagging sounds), snapshot images of the neighborhood, but who with a head on their shoulders needs all this stuff? Why dwell on the obvious anyway? Wasn’t it Lee Ann Brown who wrote somewhere that “too much detail ruins everything”? Instead and thankfully we’re left with a quick cartoon quality sketch and then directed to consider conjunctions, a lightening quick move even funnier than hot dogs.

Not only does the characterization of conjunctions as “pinions / that allow our sentences to rotate in mid-course” offer an excellent example of how bathos can be deployed intentionally, it also functions as a conceit for the gyrations to follow wherein seemingly conflicting components enter the poem so that it reads as if we’re driving a car when the steering wheel breaks loose from the column. At this point we either trust the author and hang on for the ride or opt instead for something found perhaps in Reader’s Digest.

And of course the progression of pronouns deserves a look, especially considering the first word of the poem. These go something like this: I, you, you, you, our, you, your, I’ve, she, your, you, our, we, we, her, her, his, and he. The basic movement counts to three: 1st, 2nd, and 3rd person, and while doing so, it puts the reader in the shoes of the author. “You” does most of the hot dog chomping and thinking, but you get to do it with your pal, Ron Padgett, as if he’s draped an arm over your shoulder while you nod together with infinite curiosity and grin, and he with that strange upside down smile. And he is able to do this precisely because the “you” implies simultaneously that he continues speaking in the 1st person. He solidifies this impression in the opening sentence with his usage of the colloquial “dunno” as opposed to “don’t know,” which would change the poem completely and destroy its ambiance. Anyway, he gets double duty out of the dominant yous reinforced also by the plural possessive 1st person references. By the time the first “we” pops up, a solid camaraderie is well established. Actually, it’s quite Whitmanesque.


Whew, I was just poking around through blogetics last night and found a reference to this locale by Jordan Davis, so I just want to take this opportunity to say thanks Jordan. And thanks are in order as well to Dan Tessitore, Eileen Tabios and Nick Piombino. If I'm missing anybody here, it isn't intentional. I try to look at all of your blogs on a daily basis if at all possible, and I'll attempt to keep things interesting around here. I'm hoping, by the way, to try the "pre tag" soon.

I kind of cut and run yesterday on "Euphues" due to time constraints and wanting to get something up, but the poem deserves more effort as far as I'm concerned. I woke up last night thinking of various issues realted to this poem. I'll see what I can put together in the next few days. Additional links should be forthcoming too.

Here follows an email message I received yesterday from my friend David Mahaffey. In consideration of Johnny Cash's considerable contributions beyond the music industry and the huge influence of the Carter family, I don't think it's too distant from thoughts and topics related to poetics:

Poor Johnny Cash. He's 72 years old, diabetic, suffering from autonomic neuropathy, a neuroligical disorder that makes him prone to pneumonia, among other things. He retired from touring in 1997, before I had the chance to see him perform. Imagine, then, my surprise when I learned that he would make an appearance on Saturday night at the Carter Family Fold in Hiltons, Virginia, a mere two hour drive from my home. It was to be a memorial for June Carter Cash, for her birthday.

I was warned that I needed to arrive early. Armed with two books, I joined the ticket line at noon. The "box office (a barn door) would not open until 2pm, and the show wouldn't start until 7:30. A dozen people waited ahead of me, and as the afternoon wore on, dozens more joined the camp. It would be a day of waiting, and as anticipation grew, the chatter of the crowd became louder. This is one of the few circumstances when I become sociable myself, so I enjoyed meeting several people. Some of the later comers didn't even know Johnny was performing. Carter Fold has an old-time show every Saturday night, and a few people were just there to get their usual $5 tickets.

The Carter family (yes THE Carter family, or rather, their children and grandchildren) and their friends prepare food for the concession stand every weekend. Once I had claimed my front row seat, I sampled ham biscuits potato salad, and a chicken salad sandwich. The Fold is like a museum, with the ghosts of the Carter Family staring out of murals and picture frames in every corner. It is hallowed ground.

He came in through the main entrance instead of a back door, through the same door that I'd walked through hours before. He was walking, but leaning heavily on two other people, and had to sit down literally every ten steps to catch his breath. It took him ten minutes to walk from the door to the stage, throughout which he got a standing ovation. When he finally sat down (he can't stand on his own for long because he has no feeling in his feet due to the diabetes and not much feeling down his right side), somebody put a guitar in his hands.

Apparently, his life force resides inside that guitar. Though he can't see too well anymore (also thanks to the diabetes), and he has trouble breathing, there's nothing much wrong with his voice. He played a good short set and was escorted off the stage and back home. The crowd was great, though a little creepy. They kept taking photos of him while he was resting between steps toward the stage, and really swarmed around him, wouldn't give him room to maneuver.

After Cash left, the dance floor was cleared and the original Red Clay Ramblers (out of Chapel Hill, NC) came onstage. There are some good dancers in Hiltons, Virginia, and they were all having a grand time. A crowd of Tennessee Governer's School students joined the dancers, trying to learn steps as they went and simply hopping up and down in the meantime. Their most gracious fellow dancers taught them the basics between songs, and as the evening ended, the crowd danced its way into the parking lot.



Oh! I forgot to mention the hat which floated down onto my head on my first encounter with this poem.

It's still on my head and won't come off.

No wonder I grin.
I know a man who used to teach English Lit at a local university, and in fact, I worked for him for a couple of years at a publishing company loosely attached to the same institution. Anyway, he is quite well known and connected within the broad network of medieval lit scholars, and though many consider him to be quite intelligent, he displays a serious handicap in that he seems unable to read and understand some of the most engaging contemporary poetry.

At one point while I worked at the press, he suffered the wrath of another academic in Britain concerning a book of hers he had verbally agreed to publish. I think she was putting together some kind of annotated Euphues for students, but I really don’t remember all the details. Anyway, he was trying to back out of the deal since the press had no money for a book project unless it could be expected to sell, and this book wasn’t. She, on the other hand, was freaking out because her reputation and career were on the line. She was worried about being destroyed by academia (which probably wasn’t unrealistic), and she’d gambled everything on this book promise which was suddenly turning sour after years of work. So my boss was feeling low about it all but had to answer to a board of directors and felt for the sake of the press that he needed to blow this project off.

I was aware of all this and so decided to amuse him with the following poem by Ron Padgett which I copied and placed on his desk one morning along with a pile of other correspondence (pause) (now I am forced to find the book in my precariously leaning stacks) (okay, here it is - I also found Technicians of the Sacred - yippee!):


I dunno about this Euphues.
Lyly’s language is gorgeous,
of course, occasionally irritating,
too, so you feel satisfied
to have the experience just
behind you. You get up and go outside
and have a hot dog in the sunlight and
think about the conjunctions,
those pinions
that allow our sentences to rotate in mid-course:
“The afternoon was mild, although not yet over,”
placing the dependent clause in direct opposition
to the main clause, like a woman who suddenly
turns to face you and it takes
your breath away—there is a moment
of silence and intensity—the boats
are frozen in the bay and no little doggie barks.
“I’ve been meaning to say something to you...,”
she begins. And your heart
sinks: something massive
is about to happen,
you will be joined to this woman
by a tremendous force, something like
gravity, in which
hats float down onto our heads and we smile.
We smile toward this countess of Pembroke
with her delicate lips and translation
of The Psalms with her brother Sir Philip Sydney,
the great poet and of the great tradition of
fine comportment. His conjunctions
were in perfect order
and he exuded a harmony,
a tone actually heard in the air.

My mistake was in forgetting that he was a medievalist and enamored of British poetry and formal essays, so this poem just pissed him off. He asked if I gave it to him and when I said yes, he threw it in the trash in disgust accompanied by derogatory comments to the effect that although the poem started out strongly, the author didn’t know how to stay on topic.

Well, I was taken aback. (I’ve never before admitted to being “taken aback” in these specific terms, but “aback” is a fine word even without the addition of “taken” to which it usually seems to be yoked.)

I might taken that aback, but I won’t.

But, to get aback on topic, after the unpleasant response my gesture elicited, I read the poem again, and again I found it wonderful. While I may have aggravated an annoyance best forgotten by reminding my employer of his own violation of an agreement which meant so much to another author/editor, it wasn’t the poem which was at fault.

The off topic accusation is in fact entirely mistaken. Rather, Padgett stays on topic while miraculously ranging huge distances in the process. And he does all this with a delightful sense of humor.

The first line, “I dunno about this Euphues,” is funny precisely in how it captures what must be a common reaction of almost anybody on first encounter with Lyly’s text. This emotional response is the very essence of why my boss felt compelled to back out of the publishing deal, and Padgett captures this effect with his rapid shift to 2nd person.

Even today, the more I look at Padgett’s poem, the more I am astounded that a literature professor would miss Padgett’s playful and subtle irony revolving around the idea of euphony and classic lyricism as found not only in Sydney, whose Astrophel and Stella is also quite humorous, but found as well in a poem just such as this, the final line of which thoroughly reverberates while containing all that precedes it.
I want to welcome Monica Fauble's participation with me here at hatstuck. I've no doubt that she will contribute fun and thought provoking posts and expect her presence will be an improvement to what's been happening here. I'll get her contact info up shortly, and maybe we can expand the site description a bit.


Happy solstice (from Latin, sol=sun/sistere=to cause, to stand still). Enjoy optimum sunlight and stand still. Monica
Here follows an item gleaned from my local newspaper:

"Police fear the road will become a drug-pumping artery running between South Carolina and Johnson City, Tenn."

They don't specify where the actual heart is located, though these here hills have an interesting history as relates to contraband.


Confessions of an opprobrium attic-

1: Does your dog embarass you?

2: Do not let fear early each day prevent you from being eaten by an animal after dark.

3: Because so many illegal acts are harmless, cover open ankle living elastic, as you shall see.


Leslie Scalapino opens her essay,

Leslie Scalapino opens her essay, "The Radical Nature of Experience," as collected in her book, The Public World/Syntactically Impermanence, "Activity is the only community. The conservative gesture, always a constant (any ordering, institutional and societal) is to view both activity and time per se as a condition of tradition. As such, both time and activity are a 'lost mass' at any time," adding that her "focus is on non-hierarchical structure in writing...the implications of time as activity - the future being in the past and present, these times separate and going on simultaneously, equally active... - suggest a non-hierarchical structure in which all times exist at once. And occur as activity without excluding each other."

One might get a sense here (if one hasn't had it already) not only of how a life collects into a singular occurrence which one experiences (the "lost mass" giving the false impression of moments broken loose from overall being), but also of how the entire human spectrum of being collects into an instant to feed into (or regurgitate) what one might categorize (since people like categories so much) as tradition. This has everything to do with how and why a poem might be constructed as well as what function a poem might assume beyond serving to establish a career, for instance, or being something equivalent to a crossword puzzle, as another, and I bring it up as intrinsic to what I found and continue to find in Rothenberg's anthologizing, reminded as I was upon hearing and reading news reports about Idaltu, and whether or not we are a deviant species, and as if brain size and brow ridges might warrant such a conclusion.

In any event, what we think of as poetry is much more vast than what is usually presented in school settings, college or otherwise, and I'm deeply curious about Idaltu's intrinsic and energenetic vocal capabilities, I might guess, as specifically voltaic in regard to those articulations we might today refer to as poems, and ultimately capable of transforming entirely the world "as we know it."

* * * *


hey when I sing
hey it can help her
yeah it can yeah it's so strong
hey when I sing
hey it can raise her
yeah it can yeah it's so strong
hey when I sing
hey her arms get straighter
yeah it can yeah it's so strong
hey when I sing
hey her body gets straighter
yeah it can yeah it's so strong

from Shaking the Pumpkin
"Songs and Other Circumstances
from the Society of the Mystic Animals"

English version by
Jerome Rothenberg & Richard Johnny John


Arguments against anthologizing poetry as necessarily exclusive of others whose work is equally as deserving of consideration are well articulated and apt. And yet the impact of Don Allen's New American anthology, for instance, is undeniable, as Ron Silliman has so thoroughly dissected on his blog.

In my own case, the anthologies of Jerome Rothenberg were huge in providing a broader basis of traditional possibilities on which to construct a personal poetic strategy. Most notably, I refer to Shaking the Pumpkin, Technicians of the Sacred, Revolution of the Word, and America, a Prophecy.

For anybody who is not familiar with these works, or even for those who are, I highly recommend listening to Rothenberg's rendition of one of the Horse Songs of Frank Mitchell.

Anyway, I picked up Shaking and Technicians used in Browser's Bookstore in Olympia WA a couple of decades ago, and I grabbed Revolution as a new book for about $4.95 in the same town but different store of which I no longer remember the name. The only one of these I regrettably don't own is America, though I've checked it out of libraries many times over the years.

Prior to computers, anthologies were one of the best means of finding out about work more recent in historical terms if one lived far from the poetic community centers and otherwise disdained the more obvious route of study via formal education. While I tried to write poems off and on from about the age of 11, and while knew I really wanted to write (and did) by the time I was in high school, I never graduated from HS to continue along a preordained trajectory through college. Instead I read as much as I could on my own and took notes and wrote badly a lot. In this way, my teachers were Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, Jack Kerouac, Jean Genet, Whitman, William Carlos Williams, William Burroughs, Rimbaud translations, Apollonaire translations, among others, and from whatever I could glean in bookstores, including Rothenberg's anthologies. All of this stuff of course led me in numerous other directions, but one thing that consistently stood out was that many of the writers whose work I most admired had (l)earned through an intense personal effort and away from formal educational settings.


As if intellect were limited to something found

between the ears, a

bundle of nerves and locked onto habit, a habit
of categorization, categorized and seemingly separate
from the branching and unbundled network below, but
every bit as lively nonetheless, as if the head were
merely bolted up top and in charge, the body a brute
tool, an appendage underneath and taking orders, as
if thinking were limited to something found between ears

"Paleoanthropologist Tim White describes the Herto
skulls as 'near-modern,' but sharing some
characteristics with prehuman species: 'The brow
ridges are very strong, and the area of the neck
muscle attachment is very robust,' giving the
individuals a very powerful aspect even
though the facial features are generally
recognizable as modern."

"And the braincase is rounded, like
a soccer ball, rather than the foot
ball shape of earlier human ancestors."

and thereby results in
our superior techno
logical achievements
as indicative perhaps
of brightness


Just because he has a big brain doesn’t mean he knows how to use it but,

in consideration of the recently unearthed human skull,

we current representatives of the organism known as human do appear
to fade,

in comparison. That is, our heads are significantly
smaller. Otherwise, why mention the discrepancy?

One way to avoid any negative comparisons subsequently
detrimental to ourselves is to declare this specimæn, Idaltu,

a different species and to declare, furthermore, that he doesn’t appear
to be “any brighter” (whatever this is supposed to mean and
however they arrive at this conclusion), and that precisely
is the tack scientists have taken, which is of course in our

favor, if we think
brain size matters,
and it seems, in any case, that to, at
the least, some
folks, it does.

(to be continued)


In a continuing consideration of
Nick Piombino's post on the need to
transcend the notion of progress from Saturday, June 7

I mostly agree.

As for positing evolution as
fundamentally endemic to the
mental disturbance leading to
a desire for progress, I

disagree. In my mind, rather, evolution refers to the collective biological machine’s organic ability to bifurcate toward an ever increasing diversity of genetic expression in an adaptive strategy which might enable some organisms to survive and continue despite major catastrophic events. Evolution intrinsically results in a genetic complexity and an organic diversity which to this day remains only partially understood by “scientists.” How many life forms exist which as of today remain undiscovered? In other words, evolution is not an end but a never-ending process of increasing complexity and crucial to the stability and continuance of life, though not necessarily "as we know it."

The pop culture definition with which most of us are familiar merely serves to reduce and simplify mistaken notions of evolution as a biological drive toward perfection leading to “man,” an easy conclusion which is moreover solipsistic, self-serving and, as such, quite human. We like to think of ourselves as the best of all possible organisms, which is, of course, nonsense. If anything, one might easily argue that we are the worst of all possible organisms, having caused various mass extinctions and so on, but that’s not my intent, because humans are after all capable astounding acts of _______________.

I might as well trot out a Whitman snippet here as appropriate from "Song of Myself”:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.) (1324-6)

though I can’t now remember why I thought it was (is) appropriate, but there it is, oh yea, and refracts into what all this has to do with an organic scattering of poetic strategies as something robust and, for me, thrilling.

In any case, I consider the flux of poetry in an equivalent evolutionary light, broadening especially in the closing half of the 20th century, flexible and resilient, originating as culturally specific to the US with Whitman and Dickinson and then with the Moderns (fill in the names here:______________) probing a multiplicity of possibilities, circling around and then simply exploding after WWII and growing into something inclusive and huge and, ultimately, subversive to any simple formulaic approach or singular model. Poetry as such serves a purpose commensurate to human social and political organization as evolution does to biological diversity.

In the final push here, I’m convinced that we arrive at the ideal democracy as dependent on a vigorous poetic community, that which we can see exists and called for better or for worse by Charles Olson’s word, postmodern, and has existed now for well on 50+ years. I am of the opinion that poetry is vital to a near realization of democratic ideals, because it is through such utterances that human speech more nearly approaches an honesty unequaled elsewhere. So too, it probably affects our biological development as perhaps having to do with the brain, but I merely speculate here. Maybe a powerful arrangement of words, as in a spell, has the ability to cause spontaneous mutations in the reader or listener. I like to think so.

I wanted to throw in a Ted Berrigan quote for good measure, but now I can’t find my book. What a mess.


By the way, this is my favorite holiday, and I wish a fine holiday as well to all.
~ Stephen
While boiling water is ordinarily performed with an efficient haste at high temperatures so as to get on with whatever needs getting on with, I now take the slow and (need I mention) the less violent approach, being under, as stated earlier, a self-imposed house arrest of indefinite duration; and accordingly I boil all water at no higher than the medium/low setting, having, so to speak, nowhere else to be.


Still subject to a self-imposed house arrest and unemployed for years

Greenspan claims we can expect an “erosion in macro economic variables.”

If you want your eye knocked out
If you want your fill
If you want your eye knocked out
Go up on sugar hill

Nothing happens on Thursdays which hasn’t happened already.

The jack in the surge protector into which the computer and phone feed shows signs of decay, maintains I am not a man with an exoskeleton consisting of plastic or steel.

Learning demands recompense and must thereby be tested. Granny might insist on wrapping a muffler around some poor child’s neck as she’s likely to catch her death of cold. Fifteen feet of snow stacks. Now is another steamy season. We’ve had our share of rumors. It’s a lot of hot air; who wants ghoulashes. Christ finds love only to lose it. Christ struggles to survive the night unwanted. Christ cracks down on one jack whose real name shall remain unknown. Christ this house gets stuffy. Christ publishes an erudite study of good, an evil entwined. Christ, an earthy and hirsute fellow, is tormented by insatiable lusts. Christ is poised both to topple and attain intellectual authority. One must keep one hand hidden and one mother who slides. Christ was one tough cracker. This is a story about how to die a legend, stiff blizzard, the dog statuesque while the bark in a balloon hovers above her muzzle. Today must be acknowledged as another with a high risk of shelling, colored coded and all suspect coordinates notwithstanding.



the throat and one fire
which isn't. Minion splits
Atom's apple bob gullet;
squeegee into an affable
gulp. One six
year old wonders, whom
others enthrall, et up
inquisitive. Thin wire
stretched fence, an
electrify friar hot
ponder grabs hold,
jolt-r-ooni whammo hand
jitters. Staid school
drill scorcher, thwack, plunder
perchance, smoking, those
leaves of grass
sizzle, sting testing
voltage, indeed.

* ~ * ~ *

An avowed and heathen distance
with no place I could call my own
and a genetic predisposition, an
enabled excuse [enjambed] and
thereby energized

our funny struggles

to establish

a foothold

“And further, wee doe by these
presents for vs. our heires and
successors, giue and graunt full power...”

“The 26. We
Anchored at Wocokon,
where the admiral had like to beene
cast away...”

“At Aquascogoc the Indians stole
a silver cup, wherefore we
burnt the Towne and spoyled
their corne, so returned to
our fleet at Wocokon...”

having realized that

and got to know a strange
place in we throat


I'm interested in the idea that poetry contains a potential and subtle energy which might be harnessed and directed in order to redesign human political structures. I intend to use this blog to explore this idea, because as far as I am concerned, the current human geopolitical power structure is utterly defunct and intent on razing everything of value (both human constructs and, otherwise, earthly complex habitats etc.) as it self-destructs. In my mind this is directly related to Nick Piombino's post of Saturday, June 7, which begins accordingly:

"We must learn to think in terms of transformation on many levels at the same time and stop thinking in terms of development and progression."

It's well worth a read. I tried to include a link here, but it didn't work. See the links in the upper right hand corner of this page instead. In any event, I intend to continue plugging away until the insects are viable.

Oh - Nick Piombino

I'm really slow sometimes.
This "monkey pox" hype is a curious development. I've never had a chance to pet a prairie dog and don’t know if I’ve ever seen one. A squirrel almost climbed me once, but that's another story.

The news always sounds so predictable and repetitive. I suppose news consumers have become weary hearing about SARS, so today we have monkey pox.

Our feckless leader is spewing the usual phrases, “history will show” etc., while the Iraqis systematically pick off troops. How long will the US commit soldiers to this place where they aren't wanted, and who really knows what history will show? Not Bush, though he’d like us to believe he has powers of clairvoyance.

When I need a soothsayer, however, I’ll seek out somebody other than our Prez.


Getting this facade set up and knowing absolutely nothing about HTML = trial and error and too much time. Why I am doing this? Well, I now know more than I did yesterday, though what I've learned is little. More remains in getting this screen looking right, but for now, I am resisting the urge to waste an entire afternoon on this project. Enough is enough and the warm rain appeals.


Anyway, here's a short section of a recently constructed poem. The name for this blog comes from the poem, and thus:


hot back


hat flat

flack slick
rock crackle


me splat
How might an aesthetic upheaval of the political fedlock be acheived?
Hector wants to go out
on the battlefield and
fight Achilles who is
a Greek's greasiest worrier
something by which one might be amused...
nothing to do with a dog
what’s this to do with

connecting the dots

I make a rule for myself and enforce it. For weeks I was subject
to a strict surveillance, unable to escape my own relentless scrutiny.

dog gut wretched displeasure
these guys on a deck

cards distributed a closing approach chancy

I decide to place myself
under arrest. I have
broken my own rules, and
I can no longer be held

an unemployed minion

I get up and shake