Because language overtaking meaning has to undertake meaning
Divulge to indulge
8 13 23 Notice Pink Car behind old, miners railroad hut
Updates for subscribers… changed title Pile on section to LuLu Pile Ons, and first section in that, to Calls of Oblivion.
“It” (narrator) lives on the metaphysic. up chuck fuck duck. Part of LuLu has gender benders talk street that uses swear words as privilege, feels for the other as a cum potty port and beyond. Emmm naughty.
Am pulling in solutions ?! from Pynch, methinks. Cause of its combinations. Tho — takes it heading toward Patti — partially why am here, has a less dense and if wants softer mien (I mean wrt to clarity on paragraph) and more compact tonality. How I seem to see it.
Because — language can overtake meaning so I have to undertake meaning — And my crime is a rhyme bunny sifts through repeaters as a method to bring into motion ?
Pluck Vous
OOOh that goes back to parm kisses about the animator, pluck vous I call kisses… rhyme to indulge in language as way of committing it to air ?
In dulge in lang wedge, and let it be slippery first builds are drippy and dippy, jump off straight into meta fizz , I mean they are so so, hap so lute ly indulgent and like here on the piffery, aimable for the trite —
Then starts the work throughs — waterfall through as “doublers” in Z space. But slippery, ya know, like Pynch…
8.12.23
I am out in the West, way up in mountains, with the hummingbirds. Near Nederland. Sweet Rocky Mountain town overlooking res, the reservoir. We are on a winding road, 9000 feet up. Keep your business to yourself. Reading French 500 verb book second time.
I write freely. I dont divulge as much as indulge. Letting the crow out of its casket, reading verb book for stems. Keeping notes on writing, ends up fostering a tipsy shorthand, that can go back to and preen, as cow.
Call playing with word stems — a side saddle.
Reviewing poetry and putting behind paywall here, one at a time.
This is my third unpublished poetry book or is it five now. There’s like 8 books I am working on. Novel is still far from done. Goes through periods where its liquidating into burlesque Kafka circles that are dank and rote with moronic splendor.
Money apparently isnt my primary objective. As is capturing sentences, that wrestle with excess, beloved excess, however dubious.
The intention is to find its dormants.
I like to take time, really really take time with poetry, let myself come back to the writing again and again.
And to discuss book as writing it. Chase the rudder down. Especially about its figuratives. The writing is a twirl in the can. That addresses, as must, inklings into halos of dementia.
I have been told by Buddy net irk, that the writing has its moments but is also uneven. And I know the bit is held loose.
There’s repetitions everywhere that I am trying to nail down as binding agent. I rake up words after problems into a kind of liquid delirium and then try to figure out whats in it. Try to work through problems out loud. And dog after it knowing that it consistently (and inconsistently) uses and abuses traditional rhythms and rhyme —
Reading Faulkner
Reading Faulkner about a talking dead woman, along with her neighbors and family, who are taking her body in casket to cemetery over a river and the bridge is washed out, and they go over it anyway, and the casket falls in. Its adorable really. Reasonably easy read.
Something only my poems are, I think, a reasonably easy read? Narrative bends arounds language as riddle, piddles with it and mauls…
Accumulate into Notebook
Changing organization here. Step by step. Its phantom burlesque. Not pop.
Writing gets put down, gets criticized as fizz, as trite, as cut up. Admittedly I butter in what is trite. And pursue cut ups. The so so oh know gives way to rep builder — and then cedes into letting itself grow out and gather into streams, searching for resolution, I sometimes call crotchets, or hooks.
Sometimes I ride the donkey and buck back after being traduced. Or close down a bit and rink around the feather with slope and weather. Think of it as a daring-do, that admits its harkening emerged from angst and sorrow, is scarred with the invisible, and rhythm driven.