poem to be read with Chanel fashion show 3

After M.C. Creeley’s anger

Is it your anger,
then, the one you’ve
made us listen to, not
one involved, whose
face if not the cry
or close breathing, what
you give to the world.
Which sun was wrong
to come on? Love, no
not the way you’ve said
it, meant it and made familiar
for the rest of us to save,
a clutter of not enough.
Something I know
is black, the pit
not wanting to
be pulled in; it cannot
pull an expression
double or split.
You say who did what,
not a rage, but
one done to be wrote,
I do not see the cry;
the self sight which
returns, not giving
but what life
was it we were
talking about;
It’s true that
all I say I want
to do to myself,
I do to others,
when you face me
as a floor, as a hole
in the wall.

Prelude to a having fun with a Canvas-Chair

Been putting together small canvases and
assembling them as furniture models. It
started in July 2005 with making a box,
then moved towards a tiny bed, desk, couch, chair.
But now having the desire to make them life-size.
So I will go ahead and assemble a chair. Also
looking into repetition, production of readymade canvases,
"clinical" whiteness, anxiety & convenience of
being able to purchase a canvas to "paint" on.
And because I can't paint, there's a desire to build
out of them, though limiting and costly.
But that's just it! To buy buy buy & build build build,
though its mostly already been built for you.
Without too much emphasis on that, it also just
looks fun, stark white and factory made.
Utrecht+Ikea= canvas furniture.

Pandas part3 (3/4)

Watch With Robert Creeley's "Anger" Poem on ubuweb.com

Lately, its been feeling a little 1992.

A story, as it yawns, wants to unfold; it begins from nowhere, it is nowhere that I am trying recall, filling the void as it leads into a movement, the void as a thing, has other things inside it; persons that pass through, cars, trees, soil, a bicycle, the weather even. There is a building behind the flatness and before that, a flatter blue, the sky without dimension, people passing in front of it, sunglasses and car windows. A woman in yellow walks across, affecting other movements, she is not the center, she is the center; branches hit the wind like nerve endings, she is a function of molecular movement, that is one way of saying it, a white van moves to cover the lack of seeing or believing it. Someone takes a picture of the moment that depends on another image. Somewhere outside the frame, it develops and preserves a lack of belief, not effecting what happens in the void and produces the same white van. A truck passes to negate this, a girl walks indifferent to either one; she is in the image, reacts with a digital camera and doesn’t mind at all.

It wants to develop. So two people walk in with a bag of food. They have stepped further into an open page, full of things still there, or ones that have gone. A sign that reads “fire parking lane no parking anytime.” They can’t be seen, nor can the fire anytime, edges begin to burn; they have set the page on fire. The one on the bicycle rides to the bottom right, out toward the street. Its safe there, where the story does not touch, where stores open and close to decorate spaces and those who go in and out.

An angel walks past, or rather, a man with white wings, flannel shirt and cargo pants. He might as well be the real thing; the story could use one. He passes quickly enough to be a figure of speech. There is no use for him unless he saves a part of the story or promises that the sky still matters; the blue pulls into a lighter degree, stays there and doesn’t give room to wrestle. An angel possessed a man to wear wings, this is where it begins.

Mind can be Clear Mirror or Mirror Filled with Frames

How to Make a Cake & Eat it Too.

What to buy:

1 8x8 inch, 2 ½ profile canvas
1 6x6 inch, 2 ½ profile canvas
1 8oz. tub of while acrylic paint
2 small tubes of blue & gold finishing acrylic
Zap super glue
colorful buttons
thread

What to do:

glue 6x6 canvas on top of 8x8 canvas
heavily spread white paint over it
put buttons on it
wait to dry
thread around the buttons

What may happen:

She purchased a cake, or rather, an idea of one. She took it home, watched it and showed her friends. They too, wanted to try it. One of them said “I bet it tastes just like one”, another said “Don’t touch it. It might get all over your fingers.” “Try it”, she said, and handed them a fork and knife. Only, it wouldn’t cut. “Close your eyes”, she said, and a slice came out.

They are seated at a birthday party, whose, we do not know. The birthday did not belong in the room, it was the room that had nothing to do with the person, whose birthday they were celebrating. A room which gathers opinions; the space interior, a square. In this square people are inside it, puncturing the air, voices begin to thread a long line of talk; it is in talking that a line begins to define several points, these points that wrap around several buttons.

He unbuttons a white collared shirt in the dark of a smaller room on the second tier of a house. “Do you have a needle”, he says. She is standing on the opposite end of a threaded sentence. In every instant they are separate until their inflections had potential to rip a seam. At an interval on the line, he approached her and cracked a button and there appeared another definition of pink, one that couldn’t be spoken.

In spoken parts, degrees of pink emerge; a common denominator is needed for the story to agree to, though color might be a state of motion. The telephone rings as constant embroidery, unnecessary when no one is there to pick up. All have left the party. No one is inside the birthday of the one who never came. In the center of a room, a cake; the cake which guests stood around to wait collectively. Someone says “How shall we eat it?” Another says “I don’t want to wait my whole life to eat what can‘t be eaten.”

At mass, a child coughs during transubstantiation. The priest drops the host onto the ground, unsure if the gesture was reduced to accident, flesh or art. Would Christ be present in any of these after hitting the ground? People stood in line to receive whatever came of it, believing for different reasons, each standing in their own body to eat an idea eternity.

It Was Lovely today in the Mid-70s.

Today in the MaryAnn Brown Memorial,
I recorded 4 poems from Roses of the Non-City
inside her "tomb", so hollow and moist in
there, you could get a sense of stagnant climate.
Maybe this would have some effect on the voice, whats
around it, death or preservative, rain without
the water. Either way, it was something else
to project the poems into that artifice.
Then we headed to the piano in another room
to use 4 different notes to replace
the comma, period, semi-colon & colon,
after I had explained that the poems
are in a state of not have one consistent,
proper execution when being read out loud.
Lately I've been feeling that they're not
supposed to be read out loud because
of the verbal restraints; how can a punctuation sign
be performed? A few months ago, it was suggested that
I use a set of bells to strike during every line break,
each corresponding to tone. Even if punctuation
loosens the borders between them (regarding a sense of movement, speed, pausing,
or continuing) in sentence fragmentation, it also bares the
weight in executing those particular line-breaks verbally if each
space is an 'internal-rupture'; a closure and release.
I used to play piano as a kid, something I've felt guilty
about not having pursued and wish to try again. But today,
it was tried by sensing the tones of the punctuations, marking
the keys with post-it notes. Using two high&low octaves,
c-sharp=comma, c=semicolon, a=colon, a-sharp=period. These assimiles were
based on pitch and movement (of the signs). The limitations are open to
using whatever acoustic so long as there's variations, be it bells, piano, whatever.
But the need for tonal variables are based on not having a means
to verbally execute punctuation in every line-break, which then
alters its function into a different state, that being performative.

But earlier in the day someone approaches with a digital camera on Thayer St.
and asked if I mind that she ask me a few questions to which I said, sure.
"Are you happy?", then I said "you mean, today?"
& she said "yes", then I said "I'm not sure."
& she said "how about generally?", then I said "I'm not sure of that either."
& she said "can I ask what that is that you're holding?"
"petals".
& she said "where did you get them from and why do you have them?"
then I said "I found them on the ground..because they're pretty."

Later a student asked why I had roses as part of the poems.
Then I said because of the petals, which is only part true. all the
other petals might be a lie.

1957 French Commercial for Necchi Sewing Machines: Puncturing intonation, speed, movement of the prosepoem into Fabric

Hairmachine, I am ..........::::::;,;;.;;,;,;,;.;;,;,;.;;,;,;;.;,;,;,,,,,,.................;;.::::::::::::::::....:;;;;;.;,;.;,;.;,;.;,;.;:.;,;.:,;.;,:.;,,...:,:,::::,..,;,;.,;,..,;,.,;,;.,,;.-----------,.,.;,.,.;;,:::;,,,,;;;;;;;;,;.;,;.;,;.;,;.;,;:.,;..,:,.,..;l,;;.,,,,,,,,::;.;,:.;;,:.;;,:.;,;:,....,.,.,.....:::::::::::::.,,,-----------------,,,,,;.;;;.;,;;.;,;.,,,,,,,::::::...........:,:,;.;,;::::::;;;;;;;,;.;,:,,.;,.;,:.-----------:,;.;,;...:,;, to make punctuation tangible.