fine piece on David Baptiste Chirot. Geof Huth puts effort into his pieces.

I forgot to point to this picture. the fish on the left side particularly look like they're from a dimension of motion. and the child's hand is obviously large in this. I still remember that wonderful picture of the child looking out on a city vista of construction/destruction of a couple months ago (too lazy to find the link, I pointed to it at the time). you know, in painting there seems to be a genre of pictures with koi and other garden fish as subjects. might zwell point to this picture too, a couple of misplaced exotics, altho the birds don't seem to realize it. I'm reminded of a cartoon, can't remember the artist, of 2 gussied up poodles in the wild, with one saying, "it's hard to be wild poodles of the jungle".

it says here that the 36th installment of Antic View remains sizzling at our blog for your delectation. in this episode Jeff and I go out on a limb and anoint Bob Dylan as a voice of a generation. we also try to decide which Dylan hat is our favourite.

House of Sorted Things Left After My Father Died

here the people come thus, you microscopic black hole, to live.
You wouldn’t even consider saying “Please let me know
this is mine and Kelly’s cat that they would let die here.”
maybe I am slum lord. I saw: Hospital. I saw a man who

varied and, um, sank. The people gathered around him,
saved ego the remainder. Their "pee" spelled out quotes from
famous Prague residents. I saw a pregnant woman. She pushed
herself with difficulty, raised shining, toad-like eyes to Minerva’s

face along a high hot wall, after which she groped sometimes
around him to say that you haven’t pushed her to the limit
of her potential. she is still there. yes, I just learned then
that love is stronger. She's on her path, just like me...

I sought on my plan: House of Childbirth. Well. And I must
still note always: The problem may happen again but
medicine will fix it – if anything can. Broad Rue Saint-Jacob and a
large building with one couple. The plan gave the Hospital to

a Valley-of-grace soldier. I did not need to actually know that,
but it does no harm. The lane started to feel squeezed
on both sides to the point where most of the songs
feel like they're spewing confetti. it smelled so much

that to be differentiated could, after Chloroform,
after fried apple fat content, after fear, after all the cities
feel in summer, I saw a particularly colorblind house

that could be found in no plan, but was still rather
ennobled by its door. Night shelters. The prices
were beside the entry. I read them. It was not expensive.

I am beginning to think that Jonathan Mayhew meant indifferent in the sense of being anything but.

we got all this cardboard and wot were gonna do is paint it white then cut it to size and masking tape it to this old dead white peugeot station wagon dats in my drive way... and make it look like its all lowered and shit and make cardboard spoilers and make racing numbers and shit dats in da future hmmm

I like the photo of the cheerful if alarming statuary atStephen Vincent's blog. the kind of weird things that people not only make, but make permanent. and the story behind the statuary is charming.

reading Joanne Kyger's selected poems, which I find bright and firm. both qualities give strength against potential zen wishy washiness. the idea of zen poem strikes me as problematic. or theoretically it's a good match, for zen strives towards essential condition, or let's say it does. and poetry strives towards essence, doesn't it? but, and yet, however... the zen poem can be too damn talky, just as zen commentary can be. one sees in Kyger's poetry well-lit observation as well as a steadiness. I'm fond of Lew Welch's work, but he was, as he may've thought himself, a failed buddhist. he was too nervous, agitated, hopeful to 'succeed' in practice. but that agitation worked in his poetry. Kyger's steady on, with a flush of humour, and a lightness. she's not sticky with the zen biz. I got the book from the library, but when I'm rolling in the rye grass, it is one I'd look to purchase.

indifference is anything but indifferent. it's a passive aggressive sort of reaction to inferences. I'm reminded of Ambrose Bierce, re Incompassible: "Unable to exist if something else exists. Two things are incompossible when the world of being has scope enough for one of them, but not enough for both -- as Walt Whitman's poetry and God's mercy to man. Incompossibility, it will be seen, is only incompatibility let loose. Instead of such low language as "Go heel yourself -- I mean to kill you on sight," the words, "Sir, we are incompossible," would convey an equally significant intimation and in stately courtesy are altogether superior." Auden comes to mind as a writer I never bothered to read. I have read Eliot, but never approached him with even minimal generosity. one can't read everything, so there's no guilt in leaving someone out. still, it is a platform of ignorance, however modest. what struck me about Robert Grenier as a teacher, his curiosity entered everything he read. I can't see a virtue in indifference, only a necessity.

birdwatchers in the wild 

the concord 

idyll 

rude bridge 

money plant 

well lit