"...Lulled away, I am a perfect / cornfield, I am / a perfect cornfield..." / Poems in the upcoming So and So

Santa Fe, Los Angeles, Big Sur, Santa Cruz

Today spent in the ol' city of cities, a majority of which at The SF International Poetry Festival at Civic Center with my lassies.  And, and, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, 93, read from his new "Time of Useful Consciousness." Then a woman we met at the literary labyrinth earlier ( I mentioned Hart Crane and she insisted I help heave her up onto a chair, where she spat out/recited "The Hive" by memory outward to the toothy city ) yelled that he should read out something from memory, and he did. What a grand ol' man.




Also acquired:


"The Selected Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca"

Melville's "Moby Dick"

Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer"

Berryman's "Love & Fame"

Then Chinatown and ( delicious, all-you-can-eat ) mystery foods, SOMA drinks on someone else's expense account.

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O, and So and So is planning a re-birth, and propping up a few of the "I'm  sorry ,  about  Baseball" poems in their next issue. I feel like the applause that erupts intermittently during this scene of Enter The Dragon:

"The keeper hooks the vast knee..." -D.h.

Immersions in ol' D.H. Lawrence's "Birds, Beasts and Flowers!"  Meditations on the landsphere of New Mexico, almonds, bats, saints. "...myself so little dodging rather scared against the eternal wrinkled pillars of their legs, as they were being dismantled..."






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Holy Shiite, somebody killed the author: > kill author to close its doors for keeps ( ! ), check out their archives, soon to be their only body.


Plus, been submitting poems outward, which means feeling productive, editing, which means writing, my divisions watch me.

Flag Rags / 4th, July

Take ya clothes off.

Natives, surreptitious sneakers, pilots with the rust, riders of a shaking frequency, ( I like how you define all my frequencies ), read some of Blake Butler's "Cake" at Sleeping Fish. 

Also, was the vibrating heatworld pleased, did I see 'poetry in motion' ( a culturists brainchild doubtless ) on a bus and then never again? I want more, guerilla poetry in busses, on busses, on busmen, no jury in cultured lands would have me do community service for already having done the community a service. 


Here's for a bus or two, John M. Bennett's

"Blow Away"

the crusted wind I covered with
eyesight the wind and tooth
lost in the bottom drawer there
was a wind I nailed to a board
in the splintered garage the wind
of numbers fogged in my pocket I
shaved the wind from my trembling
coat dogged the wind with my
tongue gagged and soaked with
wind your glasses retained my
sandwich hollowed with wind and
my undershirt a coughing towel of
wind I cornered in the loot
hidden in my closet the dribbling
wind caressing my face I shoveled
my ashes behind the wind and
twisted around to the front of
my wind a moon sunk in a bucket I
cradled a wind in a darkened street
in St. Louis 1961 the wind was
a throat I strangled and opened
was a sea its lunging mountains
where I was the wind
in 1948 I was a ship a small grey
wall quaking and clanging
in the circular wind

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These are the mad hot days, this Independence I have been stabbed upon the breast by a spider, I'm listening to all the Of Montreal, Frog Eyes, Velvet Underground, Women I can get my hands on... Off ( ! ) to east Nash to see who I see and smear, and eat, drink, music, dog, chicken, fire, un-work, flag, fire in a bottle, compressions of affection on me.