I’m going over Clark Coolidge’s Space (1970), a hardcover like-new copy given to me by a young poet from Worcester who came to a Cambridge reading by Michael Carr and Bruce Andrews a few years ago; he just handed it to me. Jasper Johns cover. Harper & Row publishers. Almost fifty years ago — Harper & Row — Coolidge — hardcover. in / than / end // // look / an / mess. How about these titles. “Echo & Mildew”; “Milk on the Lob”; “Soda Gong”; “The Image Furnace, under Brine.”


We’re always writing where the living talk to the dead, boasting of their willingness to compromise.

We are The We Are So Sorry
Thesis Study Group — writing in
Extremely quick intervals (about a tenth of a millionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second) and short distances (about a billionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a half inch) — just as dad, quantum flux, drives through space-time — delimiting terrestrial ideas of up/down, day/night, before/after, you know the rest.

Cinema likenesses are profuse or would be if we probed more IRA Nippon mirror jewels.

That’s why a good film treatment is a terrific poem.

Usually. I did not like the smell in the brain sketch.

Was that yours?
Are you sitting in the sentence
listening ? wearing nothing but
eagerness for a motive to
hear what we were afraid to be?


It’s easy, too uniform now.
Once back in the day the fair-minded had complex appetites,
when pragma-morphism brainstormed over innocence

in the larger context there was no recidivism to fashion.
Dante nibbled fast, in very mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.

There was a terrific wine list — and that made for twists,
drinking perfusions, he had at strangers shedding their platform shoes.
The prose poem has changed due to English.
One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to demark the unknown, much as technology funds science.

The technology of capital. How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...

From Iraq, Africa, Brazil to Hiroshima, back in Syria, graphic measures of tragi-comedic obliteration.

All this time Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

They’ll have us over when life and death crack some heads of automation...


At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there spirit nationwide is on your side.

It goes with a backhand irony like a pigeon guided missile or guard at the gate.
The front gate won’t front
As there are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.

All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber — I’m about to walk the spiral and more!
Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
Coupons expire.


Sway your head. That means dance.

Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.
Read this. I did.
It’s half in libretto.

Try something cartoonish. I’m whirling around, pens and markers in hand in roughly 4 minute stints. Learning something about what I mean, high jinks soar belying despair over entropy, a quiet smoke, zero gravity!


Small islands serve as hideouts. Safety regulators are restless. Excellent. We shall conquer childhood, read over the presentation, juggle a few heads. You’ll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. I’ll invade your space then leave later, lately.
Later Lately
Ted Greenwald
Cuneiform, 2015

There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them.
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 11.

I may continue to be pressed on cardboard.
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.”

One’s soul is on break, in a style of incompletion (Otto Bismarck),
Obsequious, sharpened anomalies & bait :

: A new music took off about here.
We slow up together.

We are one species
Meaning many wishes at one time all over time :
2 out of 20 come around.


Back when we’re on our own
as our only bard put it, his face

Boiling sad together.
Not pretty but there in print: played around

A back to romance pile up. Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata
moods — for all time rigged

To a full practice in one truce or august matter; lone
autumns & springs mutating in dark

Chez no one who stayed home,
played and slowed down to furnish the pace,

Prelude to singing along alone
Bohemian in his own anger to confuse.

Retour lorsque nous sommes sur notre propre,
comme le seul barde de notre époque, il l’a dit, un visage

.. ébullition triste tout ensemble.
Pas très joli mais il est en version imprimée et autour

Un retour à romance jusqu’au tas en espièglerie. Rythmes environ envie, la fugue-sonate
avec humeurs de tous les temps qui sont truquées

A une pratique complète concernant une trêve ou une question énorme.. où
les saisons d’automne, aux printemps, tous solitaires, sont en mutation dans l’obscurité.

— absolument personne — personne ne reste à la maison
on est ralenti, à fournir le rythme —

Un prélude à chanter seul
dans le cadre de la colère d’origine afin de confondre tout.
I’ll take it.
That way of answering the phone has passed.

A command loss.
I’m bipolar. You know. What?

We can make a poem go mute.
If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.

A world-less deaf-mute.
Affordable Noh. That’s us w/ big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook breathing pedagogy when we meet, somersaulting in /

What goes around then comes gasping, the more irregular the verb:

At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — cadet-ed!

Inductions to your other habits ..

Gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium..

A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.


The drill of local news, temperature, hours of indebtedness, mayhem, a fascinating stack of known challenges — locale reduced to the economy, co-rejecting isms not centric. Both influence perception, both engage what leftists and the right make up as sources. Nothing in between. Nothing to uphold. More below.
It’s simple / the invention of worship is over..
so much over: the topic is civility, imparting numeric dicta slathered across century-old middle ground, the themeless module (where we sleep) and fields of action (where we continue playing around vulgar innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile) fully emancipating me to feel obliged to receive you generously.

We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with given theory. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to the ideal civil democratic union with permissions built on headwinds —

yet with as it were or without manners. Good manners can scar others but they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as tho subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy.
Either way, I know so little about the state and the state so much less — these are the facts slaughtered by memory.
A wild or perhaps even a good guess as to what readers crave is a byproduct of becoming a decent reader. One writer rarely reads alone, and that’s part of the saga of collectivity and simultaneity. She and others pick up similar texts, comparable projects; snowballs start flying. When a writer thinks in public about what she is reading, she’s taking aim and will be aimed at in turn, pro and con. This is one yarn, hardly superfluous, of opinion acclimatization.

The signature concern is the reader’s experience. This concern is peculiarly self-fascinated, another point; that so many writers simultaneously figure out readers’ expectations within multiple selves, functioning in extra literary contexts, estranged politics, cultural de-/re-construction, academic-corporate performance theory and the like.

Eileen Myles is central to making sense of these multiple elements often living her own habits and pleasures in the present tense, exposing her ‘other’ for what she is to her readers.

More off-center: Nicole Brossard tames her otherness and the other-directedness that she (writer) and (s)he (reader) share.

Reading Myles you are immersed in her momentary, empathetic presence. When reading Brossard you want implicitly to inquire into her brazen iconoclasm. It would be abetting deeper juxtaposition to bracket one’s enjoyment just to explore the ordinarily unknown. How does Brossard know? How does she improvise? How do you account for a received notion “being in the present”? Even better.

on levait la tête on aimait les petits arbres
derrière le fer forgé du cinquième étage
personne ne tombait jamais
plus bas que notre habitude de la vie

[taking pleasure in these trees, looking up
through the 5th floor wrought iron
nobody ever falls lower than
this, what we make our habit in life]

The narrator who claims personne ne tombait jamais speaks for anyone who wants and takes pleasure with no palpable fear of falling.

While translating freely is not always the fairest compliment a writer may pay another, it is one entry for finding points of empathy (How does she improvise?) as well as beginning to appreciate Brossard’s command of what she suggests here (How does she know?). And in four short lines we stumble across habitude. It is a writer’s answer, Brossard’s answer for now, to be in and of the present.


Just a scent — of freezing water and sunlight, of loss, of untitled confusion — underlies twisted (Have beaten) and dropped topic headers (are brute). Higher, I think, goes the max explorer.

Hyper-manly references are scooped up from one segment of the sensate scale; motivated by an ambivert more than sexual need Joe Ceravolo insists one follow along his line of reasoning (Supply it flowing out). That’s enforced by repetition at the end, "in this rice Spring." Syntactical Photoshop gives the visual imagination warm rice, in grief, and slushy leftovers of physical demands, audacious desire (Supply me) and inconceivable, hoped-for spectacle (because there is in this rice Spring).

Spectacle, desire — points of origin even slush ought not do without. When we find these, we know we’re closing in.
The sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.


As adhesive behavior, speech is streaked w/ extra
sensory blather, a polite form of the hole-
in-the-universe. Blather ornot

                      the hole is a sometime power brimming w/ prototypes.

Storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky
dogs, gesso & sloppy intercorse under conditions that surround ourdesire
to laugh down compliments from insurgents binding heartbreak.