on the count of four outblurt something.

on the count of three, blurt something out.

so someone did a web search on Cid Corman, and because I mention Corman there, my blog gets a hit. of course this person is looking for info. what a gyp! there should be colours inside the moon that we could talk about.

just fartin' around, got a site metre for R/ckets & S/ntries. it's weird to get such facts, as a writer. about 20 people have bought my book (you can too!!! Simple Theory, available at SPD. makes a great gift! (I remember Fran of Kukla, Fran and Ollie (Fran was human, the other two were puppets, from a dating myself children's show) declaring in a commerical that some sort of sonic denture cleaner was a great gift. o but to dream...)). strangers have done this, bought my book. Ron Silliman uses stats as a selling point or vindication, elsewise why advert. I'm fascinated that a person came to the site from a web search. one gets occasional notice of readership but much of the time what one does as a writer occurs in one's own little world. like anyway, a hit may not qualify as readership. so far about 3 hamburgers have been served. when I hit a trillion, I'll let you know.

I play drums for my own noodling pleasure, don't consider myself a drummer. you can drum all the time. I mean, drummers do. tapping fingers, feet, counting. drummer for the Boston Symphony says he always counts as he walks down the street, almost all the time. this pungent reverie inspired by the news that Elvin Jones is doing poorly. jazz drumming goes way beyond my own possibilities but I love Jones. I saw a tv show about Coltrane and Jones is saying that Coltrane was a GOD, and he had this awed expression as he said it. funny, for that kind of awe you expect from a knucklehead fan like me, not someone who has a certain share of godhead himself.

not being afraid of Jorma Kaukonen playing “Embryonic Journey”. not in a moment paused for certain that the cat in the catbox, fracture called sunlight. not actually a constant pull from out of seesaw, where interest lay in wait. we were peaceniks for expanse. the journey needed time cast, or ration still doubting that “Embryonic Journey” roped a puppet government in 1968. that was evident then Iraqi. then the mention time couldn’t spray paint the wall near the school that asked. this is peace over and above the language under construction. they didn’t use Jorma Kaukonen as a practice in real time but sent a version of how poetry exists into a blanket statement. out came the Vietnam War, full of starch and the being plan. not easy situation while if the ethics holds a space and we greet the dawn of day. mild poetry runs on in time to statement that the ffects have a home. insead of embryonic journey we’ve got HEY PEOPLE. Super New Man jumps the scamper just to inform Super New Woman in time. and back and forth, as practiced. and the condition isn’t children, not even those left behind (a radicalism of despair). well, we can continue on a path, rejecting transit authority grumpy and the train doesn’t hit the station with love. our city bunches up with grip instead of ember. they’ve led the way, when they say. we catch a frequent exchange and turn into an era. for the riddling of coffee in morning, hey it’s spring. this isn’t the use for usefulness, cries the expert in treatise. Jorma Kaukonen better play along, interjects another running on. what web of flip out will this stab? in time to bolster and the nuthatch that goes downward. recognition implies report.

hey peeps! don't forget the explanation!!!

more than ever, there are trampolines, arranged neatly, springing up.

sigh

I need a new concierge

plastered with insight
a debit control the
oceanic yawn
after each sentence
in the line
a musical yaw
or hawser or
perception: or the
thing and deception

Immediate certainty does not take over the truth – certainty wants to apprehend the This. its own relevant cage or connection disputes colours in line with upbeat phrasing, the spirit of thing made which. until still found in a body of language, or living outside, until a momentary stop and dignity pause in connection if you could.

so much depends upon
thedesire of towing.

these
are where
we live.

aware
that it is also
reflected into itself

a down
pour of
spring time

if only you could read my Hegel thing, you'd say that Hegel is all right!!

the thing below is from page 2 fucking 34 of Digital Cellular Phone, some of yesterday's dollop. goes on and on. it never really seems like I spend much time writing. I may hit the computer several times a day, but it never seems like much time total. yet a pileage of pageage.

this page won’t make it, and other elements well might fail. a paragraph holds little power, and do sentences hold at all? there’s a book out there, swimming inward and do you know. such a poem as exhausts has lasted for the brilliant. in time the loose machine needles its way to a fence or factory, where and when the era beams all wake. so you can see in seeing this that attribute has a way to go. bring vocabulary if you have the time, friends and neighbours.

I've become my own fame! already!!!

but jeez, I have been reading Being and Time and it is brilliant and methodical. I've also been dabbling more in Wittgenstein and his persistent aphorisms. so many comtempoets have cited him that I felt obliged to avoid him. and tho that's stupid thinking ("listen to yourself"--OOOF!!), it was just as well, since I'm more receptive to him now than I could've been just a few years ago.

Hegel gets into good Euro culture versus poor aboriginal, and it throws cold water. forget the thisness and Notion, he's capable of being lame and average too. I grunted earlier about Jung and Heidegger, it's more like that. we all need the elbow in the ribs and "listen to yourself!" reminders. of course we inhabit boxes, can't see the culture that we make.

disturbing, fascinating piece of electronic music on the radio, by a German composer whose name I missed. it has the usual electronicky sounds, loopy, wobbly hums and squawks, plus it works with children's voice. a little spooky, but rivetting. ghosts and aliens. Karl Heinz Stuckhausen, however he spells it.

if I had nothing to say would I say it?