Wednesday, June 15, 2005

The notebooks are skinnydipping on the web.
The notebooks want to confess. To you.
The notebooks want to be read & they want to disavow their contents. The notebooks want it both ways.
The notebooks are plugs & outlets.
The notebooks will not keep their mouths (i.e. covers) shut.
The notebooks insult your intelligence.
The notebooks could fall into the wrong hands. You'd love that. Wouldn't you? Admit it. Come on, admit it.
The notebooks are desperate to fall into the wrong hands. The notebooks are on your side. The notebooks will be on the traitors list. My traitors list if I had a traitors list. Do I believe in a traitors list? Do you believe in a traitors list?
We were innocent without hands.
I now look differently at the word intelligence. Know what I mean? Go look it up for yourself.
The notebooks, finally, are a fiction. Go back to what you were doing. It was, no doubt, more important than this.

Monday, June 13, 2005

I jotted down all but a few lines of the following lines during interstices in yesterday's Joe Torra/Jim Dunn reading outside Toast in the Aspen shade of Union Square, Somerville. When I got to school this morning I found out a former student (one I know well) was in a bad car accident over the weekend...

Carland Torture

so much potential death
& then it happens
Bars & sutures
Keepin wha thegither?
wha frum m'self?
Y'cannae ta'it wi'yeh.

Sad torture.
Yr eyes stuck open
'til they dry.
Growth on yr throat.
Y'cannae coff i'owt.


Ghosts steal lost keys
Ghost's steel: lost, missed.
Finger keys. Lingers there.
Mist: the pavement haze:
What happened?