i&b-logs (c-notes/frames 4rm the web)
by Dave Wright
I & B-Logs (C notes from out on the Web) Introduction: This is a chapbook of notes/poems concerning LANGUAGE since the Web became its biggest venue/platform ever. The interest is this Generation: (The Great Forgetters, retail commodities of the Late-1980s/Early 90s. Language only evolves with us & we with it. They aren't mutually exclusive; however, they are becoming further apart. What is the Web telling the Idiom of the human sense of touch, taste, and smell? These affect language, believe it or not. Everything is assessed by the data left behind, and in many cases what is not. And this sensory data (smell, taste, touch) is being left behind in language. *8 Declarations of Sense-Heritage B4 Going On* mock-Heroics circa the end of the 20th century: This is what pre-Internet writers used to sound like... ______________ 1 I am urged empty-handed into a new millennium Certain I will infuse In the body its place there I am to peer, not by way of an outstretched mirror Not reflected in vanityâ€” but vested Deep into unobstructed hearts of the past & into the approaching not-yet, never the premonitions Never the future shackled to inheritance Nor strewn by the stout gusts of history ______________ 2 Gather seed in heritage & from it bloom in the gale ______________ 3 I will not lose faith in my ancestors I will not lose faith in this future this medium I will not to lose faith present in the long-gone, the yet-born apparition of father ghost.mother.son mother.daughter I will not lose faith in the intimate life within us, before us or the us yet intimate within ______________ 4 Transmitting I & We into one-form, a custodian
among life’s trustees & benefactors & be the heir to the body, a transmission of time— we ephemeral streams relentless, unsexed words to riddle in us common histories Await the sexless. young. reflect the heritage… dissect. Us. Move on. ______________ 5 I am certain I will infuse a body outside the bodies & wait fearful & clinging estates into the collective chest of a Body aged, body gone. I am certain I will not lose faith outside the body cage perishable commodity clutched to chest. I will I & will what will was left to us— then release us as words. Or shut up. ______________ 6 My mode is that of word transmission. Inheritance Across three plains of heritage the omega heart from which we cleave— artifacts on our discourse of Love: families and private spaces redefined fresh laws, lost epics and distant wars, prophecies dead languages, the modes of inheriting public arenas (words) expiring— still-un-gendered & impregnating the future, aborting the past. ______________ 7 I am walking empty-handed a testimonial abating the stark still presence of my seething bones predisposed to transform the commune of body&word isolation & celebrate together!
______________ 8 Be certain of a shared & private past fused native ebb and sway, a language evocative
tongues proudly approaching amalgamations of flesh compounded upon charged fleshy words jutting into the renewing urge of our past&future bodies together I will I & you the same
as long as we talk about it.
What will we say? What will they say we said? Felt?
Seeking Employment Yesterday Googled a position At AMRCA global office, and Before the corporate origins, the Human Resources site, the meaning Of the acronym, Before The hard facts, revenue reports, Fringe benefits, vacation options, Before even a stock ticker— A topographical map, A current census, and A nation’s history & news Appeared. Found What happened In America yesterday. Not a company hiring. Tomorrow will, Hoping someone will refine The search options for this AMRCA position, Try the same. Again Find what will happen In America tomorrow. Not a company hiring. Will find its origin, the hard facts, The maps, the census, The entertainment, the crime reports, Will find stories of the famous & the poor The newborn & the dead, Tomorrow’s events. No companies Hiring. A Nation. It makes No difference though, Even if in search of America (and not A company hiring) you Leave “I” out, You’ll find what’s happened Today. And Yesterday In America That position was cut.
Smoke Detectors & Sirens A small house fire ignited a family Home east of the city in early morning hoursâ€” During sleep an eye Left on simmer caught, as it appears, the bottom Of a nylon streamer hanging from a birthday balloon. Drafts through the family Home authorities say caused The left over decorations to drift and hover the still Heated range from supper When the streamer hit the coil, Fire began to climb. Everyone Woke to the sound of helium Leaving rubberâ€” followed by smoke Detectors, sirens, the hydrants. The ladders. A simmer. A last drip of the valve. A diesel engine fired. A light fizz Then silence. Later on the news In the family room no one is reported To have been Injured, or Missing. Rememberâ€Ś
Inspiration & Imagination These are the notes on the funeral of inspiration. Like a third aunt, you & I have never met; we mourn the death of inspiration from the back row—jotting lists, or balancing an account on our laps, or touch screens. The back row, a heart-kind gesture. But we attend the ceremony nonetheless: Great Forgetters, We attend because we had met briefly, you & I with (un)inspiration somewhere before— some place through tinted, borrowed screens of dreams. A rent of time before this inkling.high definition life-affair this strangely touchable medium of the imagination… lets us down
End thought Start Thought
A Bunch & A Few the Word™ is the most versatile tool. experiment work with it. Write it a bunch at once. Write it a few times It one at a time. Find new combinations of phonemes, a fit (the gears so to speak) satisfy ears with its bold uses of the metronome (cam-shaft)— it helps us maintain exact or disrupt order. &Will BE. It allows us to decide. When to refurbish. LoveWord™ moves us templates to awe & blisses it back to form. Everything woman&man is, owed to the Word! Ode 2 a word: the most versatile tool fit. the Word™. the task, the closing of the gaps. Close these gaps & WE WILL BE richer in our lifelong enjoyment of each other’s LoveWords™, on firmer love-ground & …not mind the company at all WE WON’T.WE WON’T WE WON’T.
in terminal(s) DRAFT: K. BUT Y? _________ Hh113
( ) K. BUT Y?
What a thing to draft and not send to someone leaving you
to care for, you, leaving you to some you never cared for. Y, in short, means “why are you Leaving so soon?” K. means I’m not great or good, happy or even glad about what you are doing but I’ll support your decision to do it, to think about it; come to think about it— k really only means half of ok and a quarter of okay. So take it for what it is worth. ?: is there any question Now where we are headed? Toward love. *** Soon they departed, soon to their capsules of rented seats, where soon their breath like iridescent gases through a lighted sign would circulate and refill the airtight space around them And they would settle into the regular class of commuter travel. The seats, tattered and synthetic as they’d always been, were irrelevant to anything— sort of romantic to think of themselves silent (in)different terminals,-- every few seconds—twittering on the boarding room chairs.
*** A sense of panic, she could almost see vague traces of a number she thought she recognized, crushed liquid, light receptors now a muted half-tone digital black with vague traces of hi-res color seeping through a breach in the center view, horizontal to numbers her pen dead, her paper dead, her screen dead---. Her poem healthy as a mule.
I. I say let me go Ohio; let me go! “Have forgotten— An’ will forget” On the way back I’ll roll a fit to the night Meet me here and down and dont Let me down dont let me down, not tonight Not in Ohio! O lord, O h i o a g a i n H e r e- w e- g o- a g a i n (Was tn Was tn Was Tennessee) Really such a sin? What a waltz! What a grin! So what the talk of the fair-weather woe of man So what the talk of women an’ men So what can you talk of getting ducks in a row So what can you… know! I know too; So what did you sew, do you know What happened in O h i o ? II It was you it was. you The open road and us It was you I trusted to know It was you I trust it was. to remember you I trusted with skills of the trade It was you it was; and it is not you But him Who must be repaid. Repaid; repaid for What was said, What was set to undo What was set to mask and was set to show What set for you on a highway in broad daylight
That thing that happened in O H I O… III Dont say it dont Dont say that thing That thing that thing that thing Dont say a word dont say a word Not a single ring of a note...of word not one! Not if you want to keep not; if you want to keep If you want to keep in this life, and sing If you want to preserve if you want To sleep To strive if you want To keep records and dont let me down if you want Don’t say a word; Dont make a sound, keep your records If you want I’ll keep mine Keep your stamps, your figurines Keep your peace that’s fine by me By me; by me don’t make a sound; Not a note I said not a note, not a slow note or a peep of What happened in your sleep of Your nights in the wrench of What happened in Oh I O.
spontaneous diplomats and we’ll call them (us) at tootsie’s orchid lounge* remembering ee inside us country cinema-watchers , spontaneous diplomats and we’ll call them(us) eating cool imperfect gods down in their keyhole throats like mercury barroom thermometers smug and perfect devilish & red to burst O child devilish of creation eyes on knots of pine bar sharp clanks, rocks thumping the curl of bar puddles, hung perfect ice on ice makes no noise through the whiskey glass O the distilled overlapping lolita wanna-be(s) ,dangling chandelier mouths gangly black fancy oxfords ,iron slacks collars popped little hair left on arms (on their chins obnoxious/normal partners blah.Blah[dead fruit black against ears] berries rotting… understand they were on phones with others in the bar and i was sitting in the orchids w/ makers on the rocks sipping kentucky fountain of youth in music city, a hare in a bushel of toxic and beautiful creatures as they were discussing portfolios politics farming and pornography as it was. true. outsider art (the plastic trophy…& of the universe in plain view the dartboard) O i suffered them sloe-gin & shouting, clear un-entwined magic and dread the ones undone prefer see-thru spirits over deep-browns (bourbons and the like un-assembling the over-blown close talkers barmaids and tongue drifters, saturday night clergy-things/sub-mortgage-BROKERS .i was terrified the fear homeownership crept into new light conversations about the room the view…. O so near to me they were breathing and some-beautiful and toxic, and I should mention the weather and they when they are away on company time drink heavy this time of year, inside the orchid rooms spontaneous w/ the makers the bartender, I, asked………..they didn’t answer, and never a soul at that moment again knew them well
*a bar in Nashville, TN: Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge: doesn’t normally get this weird, except this night in particular they (whoever they are) were hosting a conference downtown— not Tootsie’s but the convention centers; these were the little hours, Broadway. A friend of mine was behind the bar.)
Pixels (ether) whittle black mast of your night the shape of a vessel, not mine a shadow rippling like waters on two edges of the prow— virtual, 3-d pirate battles on our claim of a pixilated sea
· I’d be honored to die watching the evening news I’d be honored to die A heart attack battle in a crowded theatre Opening night of an American Horror Film. I’d be honored to die on the job.
· A docile omnivore walked into a digital pet store and purchased the original reptile pet key-chain. He said, “It’s okay; you can take me home and play.” And when he bit him she said I told you so, and Kept on eating. The store Keeps a strict no-return policy. Their receipts Big as novels.
· It fades up from hibernation. It refreshes us with a liquid hum. …and through our astigmatic eyes we squint (mouths closed) & wade into the glowing screen of ether
A Drink Name Steve or Bob or Bill or Rick “We don’t make art; we find it and remake ourselves.” -Anon They say we don’t write songs We find them. And it’s true I found one today. I named it Steve After my favorite grasshopper joke, The one that’s like ‘A grasshopper Walks into a bar…’ And sure enough the bartender Makes a drink named Steve, and he has one. So in many ways my song is a beverage And in the joke a grasshopper named Steve or Bob or Bill or Rick Is drinking my punch line. .
concerning in the wild, a word Like all desert life able words can walk Up to fifty miles per day searching For what, in all that arid expanse, sustains them hot rock. quick. flat. hot. rock. quick. â€” slightly elevated Casting a patch of shade, A resilient desert shadow For life to wake under and stretchâ€” Grass as such the vitals of all pachyderms & large mammals Need grass as such the grass scarcer than water, thicker Than thick-skinned creatures, the grass an unfortunate thing. The water here come alive with words The periodic animals, the membranes the poem becomes Like rootless creatures, Alive! On the dirt but sand Through the heaping desert floor, the narrator said thatâ€™s a primitive dialect, I disagree over the springing forth of plant life, near-by the weather-break The blade of the grass is no more grounded on its word Than sooner the earth dampens its and all Wordless creatures break fifty miles for wetlands And root in a swatch of primitive shade Concerned with in the wild, the words they are
This poem, and those like it, will not save your life, (Poems aren’t heroes or heroines) Nor will it lead you to a higher knowing, or save you time and money: For instance, if you read it too many times You will neglect other things you need to read right away Over-spend & shop hungry… And you may overlook that warning label. Which? Then The ceiling of your home will incinerate And you will be crushed beneath your attic, Burning Christmas Nativities and fiery winter coats Will rain down on you if you read this poem Even once too many times. Do Not Light Indoors. That label. But read it not at all And you miss these warnings, Become an insurance risk Premiums go up And this poem does not qualify As collateral that can be offered In exchange for borrowed dollar bills. Or promises of future dollar bills. No lender will put a lean against this poem. If you are busy, or have a busy life Put this poem and all like it down. Never Pick it up again. It can’t manage Your incoming messages, pay your bills, Work your over-time, cook or buy your supper, Diversify your portfolio, raise your kids, Take your trash out, set your alarm, literally can’t Save your life. Just Can’t Happen. But if it could You and I’d be Billionaires, and never have to read Or write another poem for the rest of our busy, un-poetic lives
On the Purpose of an American Crow, a Prophecy 1.
“Gather to open the ancient envelope— Our mania of dust” Sack religion in x-rays foretold The answer where bone-face angels dropped the soap box captain lost his words: White noise ghost Pouring rhyme villains Leaking The eye of a brainstorm Remaking her face passed three times the hour glass What words we were looking for, what worlds… Riotous rose skeletons on the path Rib bones and mangles of meat hook catalogues Overbearing paper saviors, All decorations of the promised, streamline paradise Oooooo lala! They say, Harry hired Henry Who slept with Sally Always Sells Seat belts on the second floor And so the story goes. A savior says things You never want to hear. Ozone resurrection in two candle flickers abstract ant creation, cloning abundant creatures who snicker like an English phone operator The digital cavemen wallow In the caverns of excessive technology Preparing to rediscover fire,
And what to call it “Noah, your dove is a crow And he stole the olive branch— Why not the word?” 2.
The calm of reason The emotional energy of movement, The angel-ecstasy Pedestals in sun-piped illumination. Alter Nation. Circulate reservations— Illusional master angel with a spear head (say what it means) The Nephew licks his lips To carve one stoned path— (say what you mean!) Head of a drummer’s body, the mouth a factory For the bone face, brick street pro p he t Stuck in the youth institutions, broad mounting with antagonism, A purification. A deliberation. To dance and laugh in cold abstraction So in love with life to rid it of your intrusion the heavy voice, Like blue lips after an ocean’s murder Second-hand humans pickled syntax in a mason’s jar, The Wicked Operator of limb/tongue/word detraction Wrapped in bobble-head savior disguises Services, organizers of the word,
*remember this is prophecy words*
somebody said god is dead, (do you really believe him? Fred.) And we the mutilators Must thrust the identity blade Like the new grass word movement out there spreading
Blood on a Desert In manic the sky the disassociation Phrase extinction, catch the drift?, We have become… A stillborn word-shark’s ghost (you believe all that?) Void in the thought of swimming— In the hours gorged on syntax The ugly words, the things they can’t say On stained deck of bile lacerations On the deck rigid bile of everywhere, (These are American Prophecy Words) Dead armies, You kill one person you get a word. You kill 10 or so people you get another. You kill more than that you get a third, And depending upon who and why you killed them You could get a forth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and possibly an eighth. Sink the Queen Ivy’s Revenge (in a tower) Dig up lost words… from their captors You’ll see what I’m talking about .” An earthly monarch lectures On meadows of butterfly virgins (say what you mean!) And rock ladies’ rotting chastity Staining the ceremony silks Where the groomsman suffocates On bouncing bobble head god figures, Hording the eternal solvent for feasting. (what the hell’s that have to do with meaning? This language won’t do) The Antique Continues: “We, the unholy gullets of a wing-less tongue Choked on the scourges of baby-talk, Loathed the languid eulogy vein, holding room The Ring Master of cryptic gallow’s reserved Words in the bile of his amputated razor book— (…?) A misconception of oval proportions… 4.
With men echoed
Like spider hearts muffle, Quaint stained in filaments Of spoiled milk rations, The Quarry mines Shown lack luster lapels Pinned to diamond mongrels, Bled— slept in eye stains Percussion voices march heavy On echoes mangled in undergarments, Selling mousetraps for milk money “Rodger— The doctors in” “Does he have my script yet, nuclear?” Positively open sinus reflections Worsen laughing Rodgers disease— Ruined apron and lousy Shoe string trappings, Joker so surreal, In unpainted salvage laboratories, Nuclear overcoat paid in milk money Thrown erect Through a hitchhiker’s pose Grazing the backdrop silos— Rodger addresses Joker, *remember this prophecy. & they sound like this!* Faking concoctions, the nuclear overcoat wizard smiled. Already were the slain Spoiled in the master eagle’s circus And the red-iris skins were melting The egg cart facilities had a brown-out And locked sidewalk skeletons in their rooms. Yet still remains the Joker pose Sealed in an overcoat stride behind him, arranging Fourteen Raven Bones In a concave mirror, Concave the crystal-tongue-rifle words Velvet rocking in road water rapid fire words Soaking ladies in ankle skirts, Lingering bomb love. No Words like prophecy words!
Milton slang the China Highway For Rodger’s three-day train opera And Gonzo’s Five Rat Parade, “Excuse me, Stuttering-cowboy-priest Your Prophecy is here— I think it’s broken” Antique envelopes unfold and Spill liquid-miles Curing old age with hand rails, False hunger with grocery stamps, Boredom with simulated War maneuvers Death with cosmetic injections. Coda: the opera Prophetic America; the show is over. Return the word to the mouth, The tree to the crow.
*this is prophecy example. It’d the stock example. In five hundred years or so someone may claim to understand, and warn the others. Don’t bother arguing with fools.
Past & Present In fashion of decay, they say, any future holds itself accountable For what the past started To undo and refashion memory extinguished by the lengths a single, present moment Mirrored by those memories yet made. But thatâ€™s not to say we all reach the dulled edge of our memory in our final days. Even in the later stages of that awful decay, some folks find the proper connections (the right, healthy neurons exchanging all they know), to outwit the demented bouts of their present conditions, and speak freely the old truths of the past
the nd 2 b cont.