Jim Leftwich
Four commentaries / explications
Gil Wolman, Scotch Art
04.06.2017
Eight Unit Piece, 1969, Robert Smithson
04.09.2017
Crept Into My Shoe: Elise Cowan [Cowen] in Fuck You, A Magazine of the Arts Number 5, Vol. 8, (The Mad Motherfucker Issue) 1965
04.16.2017
Smaller bundles — Cram (When Dickinson howls, we listen)
05.13.2017
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Four commentaries / explications
Gil Wolman, Scotch Art
To arrange the questioning of mass manipulation, =which tearing off socks and pajamas, +++++++++++++++, therein achieved no advance solstice, who had floundered in the everyday. The presence of paper similarly mattered to newspapers and to poets, through a variety of social insurance accounts, due to the oil always seeping from the cave. In 1976, the dill pickles of Kurt Schwitters notwithstanding, some have come from the truckstops with derringers in pillowcases, agents like a rain of countercultures to chase away the surety. Allocate under red oeuvre lies resistance behind criminogenic depletions. The handwriting of Tristan Tzara exists mysteriously in the United States. Excavate the music of illusion! Structural besides surfiction aggravates the choir. Glue-research. Glue researches text/image poems. Diverse and supple, foaming paper from interspersed theories, fixed tape on plastic letters, concept-narrative themes of which balloon entirely fragments began. Release the staccato tragedy of meaning! A textual weather devoid of exits. Spokes sprockets firewolves baggage exarch purities of glue pluralities of glue and neither. This fall aligns the unity of a unique revolution with our longterm leaping origami in the spring. It has settled to the bottom of the lake. Independence is attained through patience. A creeping independence. Clenched papaya or pomegranate unannounced in crisis in the rearview mirror. Believe the uneven seven elect to a sock inimical and piecemeal, cut and repositioned in layers of immortal soy sauce. Add something new to the verbal habits =+++=====+====+=======+== ++++==++=+=+===+= flat as a needle in a washing machine. He was useful and invented. Useful as invented. He was as useful as he was invented. Useless and inverted. Masterpieces like The Invisible Name of An Appointment.
04.06.2017
Eight Unit Piece, 1969, Robert Smithson
Crouched in the corner of the gallery, elbow on knee, chin on fist, thinking about thinking. There is dirt and there is dirt. There is the map, and there is the map of dirt. In the dirt is a mirror wrapped in a map. The dirt is a mirror. A map is a mirror. Therefore a mirror is a mirror.
Cezanne and they were in photography as a concept of geologists on good terms with the makers of the earth. Artifice recovers the rocks and treats them as a museum. The whole bent site is a photography format. Things are never only the things they are.
Instead of quickly rectangular we are now at the point of another perception. Representational lines cause the cubic ecology of actual work. To some degree of motivation I do not think. Groundless because design, perspective a thin and simple subject, the real is periodic and implicate.
To shed perception so long ago (now was a noun an ego ago), thrown into the word to avoid any reference to the physical, as we have seen, the feet are in the terrain and the terrain is on the feet. There are no nouns in nature. A role of the dice is to never abolish choice. It has important birds, behavior into tendency, toadstools to decorate an empty feudalism, where thinking is measured in the romanticism of its things.
Do not think of a hinge. To reintroduce within the map an uncertainty almost unconscious, with no criteria to designate the randomness of our limits, we fringe and point the edge-supply, scanning boundaries opposed to the zeroing focus calculus. A sector-map fixed to a psyche, precise between rectilinear amorphousness, variations on the theme of containers in flames, on this side of the river, crouching in the sand, elbow on knee, chin on fist, thinking about the other shore.
Cezanne and they were in photography as a concept of geologists on good terms with the makers of the earth. Artifice recovers the rocks and treats them as a museum. The whole bent site is a photography format. Things are never only the things they are.
Instead of quickly rectangular we are now at the point of another perception. Representational lines cause the cubic ecology of actual work. To some degree of motivation I do not think. Groundless because design, perspective a thin and simple subject, the real is periodic and implicate.
To shed perception so long ago (now was a noun an ego ago), thrown into the word to avoid any reference to the physical, as we have seen, the feet are in the terrain and the terrain is on the feet. There are no nouns in nature. A role of the dice is to never abolish choice. It has important birds, behavior into tendency, toadstools to decorate an empty feudalism, where thinking is measured in the romanticism of its things.
Do not think of a hinge. To reintroduce within the map an uncertainty almost unconscious, with no criteria to designate the randomness of our limits, we fringe and point the edge-supply, scanning boundaries opposed to the zeroing focus calculus. A sector-map fixed to a psyche, precise between rectilinear amorphousness, variations on the theme of containers in flames, on this side of the river, crouching in the sand, elbow on knee, chin on fist, thinking about the other shore.
04.09.2017
Crept Into My Shoe: Elise Cowan [Cowen] in Fuck You, A Magazine of the Arts Number 5, Vol. 8, (The Mad Motherfucker Issue) 1965
We write poetry to remember, and sometimes we write poetry to forget. But hidden in our forgetting, encoded there, is our remembering—our secrets.
Poetry holds paradox without striving to solve anything.
Diane di Prima, from Some Words About The Poem, in The Poetry Deal (2014)
Pre-formed performative engagement activates dangerous access, in every excess time scrimmaging with the self-pulse prosthetic recollections, not quite the wolves of Voltaire slinking through the alley to devour experiments illegal and at large. Self-coaxial revelations grasping at pianos hidden somewhat behind the secret forklifts of our acquaintance, rolling rolling rolling under, but what of it? It is impossible for combinations of the house to page through the writing process and come back as the scrawled memories of literature itself. Helpless mirrors they would lullaby against the bouncing husband walls. For others without to-do lists, knowing the novel knolls backwards, sweating troubles in the middle of a reader, sleeping infuriated fascinations studious with power. There is no structure forewarned to own the glass suitcase, the feathered ceiling, the golden slippers kept unkempt, the unruly givens of the causal battlefield, withering mythic beliefs, time coiled around your toes and tied to a trembling veil, just so life can go on as usual and encounter whatever was.
Galoshes like a loaded gun, raincoat, umbrella — umbrellish, umbrellant (a patronizing, umbrellish pedagogue; his shrill, umbrellant diction), basement review fiendish skirmish noted thoughts tinkling in their assigned dresser drawers, the moon my own beer cans the breath mints and beans of June. No apparent chilblain personified essence of brittle laughter instead a tangible generosity flailing about in institutions and extended families, Pisces familiar to no one, a few windows haunted by the secret gradations of episodic poems, clean and jumping, pointed mentations dated, unproven, else a philosophy of attention is perfected in the memories of everyday life, waves chain delicate logic breaking through the rose in excerpts. Soon the mottled lattice will be later than whatever it was about. We will fund the blue smelling full with blunt entries and gongs of sleep. Moon island rose, macaroni donut still, an archaeology of the spoon, grilled halves even seven kind bloom. Indifference specializes in dismissive organization. Most of the shoe-obsession struggles eventually fire-eye warmer limited to what it knows and when it knows it. Crept into the fragrant cold hand bronze as a roadside shoe, shadow across the loaded antenna, no blinking thinks nor probed and propped the other ripped splinters hovering atomic poets, corpseknife bell a bottle of jellied spirits. Every page is labeled with a suit of thoughts, cloudblood myself shivering like ears in milk. Underneath the woven corpses can wear them in their dye.
Once remembered a sliver of everything hiding in each act. Combinations of poems decades later veil survived warnings against metaphors and adults. Hands taken from the tools of Dickinson in stripes claim revived revisions recur in the strange orange notebook, closest at actual assignments against experimental becomes text-exchange uselessly passionate, a desire to think anyone in a poem would change wonder for an unread sun. That much is folded into the shirt and flattened with a mangle press. Into combs about themselves as fragments of the tooth, literature once again is fresh, straying in service to the boat, second-wave historiographic gists obscured by lyric recovery. Demise into bats and tuba. College began to strive for bears in unstable rags, nameless inescapable transformations, cynical literary formalities, onions imported at midnight among pirate radio stations and consumerist kites, independent minds adrift on the brink of a temporary style. The rotting dawn. A sign for associated souls, the shadow of which is an authentic wine at the break of dawn in the depths of a patient absurdity.
Galoshes like a loaded gun, raincoat, umbrella — umbrellish, umbrellant (a patronizing, umbrellish pedagogue; his shrill, umbrellant diction), basement review fiendish skirmish noted thoughts tinkling in their assigned dresser drawers, the moon my own beer cans the breath mints and beans of June. No apparent chilblain personified essence of brittle laughter instead a tangible generosity flailing about in institutions and extended families, Pisces familiar to no one, a few windows haunted by the secret gradations of episodic poems, clean and jumping, pointed mentations dated, unproven, else a philosophy of attention is perfected in the memories of everyday life, waves chain delicate logic breaking through the rose in excerpts. Soon the mottled lattice will be later than whatever it was about. We will fund the blue smelling full with blunt entries and gongs of sleep. Moon island rose, macaroni donut still, an archaeology of the spoon, grilled halves even seven kind bloom. Indifference specializes in dismissive organization. Most of the shoe-obsession struggles eventually fire-eye warmer limited to what it knows and when it knows it. Crept into the fragrant cold hand bronze as a roadside shoe, shadow across the loaded antenna, no blinking thinks nor probed and propped the other ripped splinters hovering atomic poets, corpseknife bell a bottle of jellied spirits. Every page is labeled with a suit of thoughts, cloudblood myself shivering like ears in milk. Underneath the woven corpses can wear them in their dye.
Once remembered a sliver of everything hiding in each act. Combinations of poems decades later veil survived warnings against metaphors and adults. Hands taken from the tools of Dickinson in stripes claim revived revisions recur in the strange orange notebook, closest at actual assignments against experimental becomes text-exchange uselessly passionate, a desire to think anyone in a poem would change wonder for an unread sun. That much is folded into the shirt and flattened with a mangle press. Into combs about themselves as fragments of the tooth, literature once again is fresh, straying in service to the boat, second-wave historiographic gists obscured by lyric recovery. Demise into bats and tuba. College began to strive for bears in unstable rags, nameless inescapable transformations, cynical literary formalities, onions imported at midnight among pirate radio stations and consumerist kites, independent minds adrift on the brink of a temporary style. The rotting dawn. A sign for associated souls, the shadow of which is an authentic wine at the break of dawn in the depths of a patient absurdity.
04.16.2017
Smaller bundles — Cram (When Dickinson howls, we listen)
Dash them as presented to dredge, coax nor choice of soup, his own inconsequential scratchings mimic those who never absolved. As though a book thought, with no nerves to give, was junket upon the poem, circa 1870.
Her flowers flow in secret. Delivery house, seeing a real word, even at night in the heat of August, missing that privacy. The obvious ribs of Camelot and poetry — the communic — understood the world of wizards as a craft.
Syntax of Amherst shatters energy and collapses into hymn-riddle. True into words is waged into riot. Constructions mask a clue. Variants mask complete hand-sewn signs. Discoverer was explorer was triangular and missing. Firm and still as the private lexicon of collage.
Letters convince us to improvise. Mirrors choose our melodies. Puzzles a pair of weathers.
House became impersonation to safeguard around the kind. The open door changes the letters. They sway and yield to outfox the plan of prose.
A witch, when in the toes of the poem — it comes up through the feet, said both Miro and Lorca — the tone invents the eye. Dancing always striking poems shrinking — inverts the nose. Everts the rose. No other poem than in the inner coils of melody uncooking in the corridor. Would the rediscovered past instruct at noon where the attic pays homage thus far.
Allen Tate: "Cotton Mather would have burned her for a witch."
Sound a sense in language to button the saucer — advance it convinced of leaving. Lived right here in the hex of the righteous night. Lacuna on the moon... archaeology of the brittle, open window... portfolio in ghoul-seminar copse... deals had limped the letter new.
Songbird letter to sudden horribly Amherst. In place kept to stay at scholars. Sitting on the road like the footprint of a tree... collage of gates and exits...
According to the visual model, the rift in holding radical poets, even the movement of the toes, from within the object poetry thus finds a subtraction of the critical volcano. Fumerole more interior than learned, what has happened is conditional, indispensable space lodges in dissipation and retreat. Honed remarks guard the stolen joys. Poets will have to consider the short sorties between power and the eye. To see Rimbaud is to see the Amherst recluse. At the rim of the sea we open the other secret tomb. Pages exult poetic moments. In difficulty such as excited verse. As writing is a phase of the phrase. Rimbaud in the sea among semicolons succinctly drifts. Behind the idiosyncratic ambiguity, clearly "you" in her piano, time yet who loves the hours joined in long-world poetry — it is midnight in the poem in any era.
Mysterious footstep, birds. Evening marshmallow in earsight of the spirit. Unprecedented isthmus, who could think, unhappy letter-scarf yodeling in a cloud. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our private worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our public worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our anti-worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our arable worlds.
Believe the camera and withhold the solitude in your hat. Filigree of probability blossoms evanescence. Ahead of the hummingbird across the river we are writing a new index of alcoves among the mountain ranges. The long scarecrow disappears into pizzas of attention. We have no letters and very few futures. It's as if therein the puzzle had no idea. When Dickinson howls, we listen. A glue-infested language lives behind our thoughts. A box of candles... the play of coiling minuscules... constructed spells glow like messengers on a piano... orchestrated knots tantalize and reveal...
Her flowers flow in secret. Delivery house, seeing a real word, even at night in the heat of August, missing that privacy. The obvious ribs of Camelot and poetry — the communic — understood the world of wizards as a craft.
Syntax of Amherst shatters energy and collapses into hymn-riddle. True into words is waged into riot. Constructions mask a clue. Variants mask complete hand-sewn signs. Discoverer was explorer was triangular and missing. Firm and still as the private lexicon of collage.
Letters convince us to improvise. Mirrors choose our melodies. Puzzles a pair of weathers.
House became impersonation to safeguard around the kind. The open door changes the letters. They sway and yield to outfox the plan of prose.
A witch, when in the toes of the poem — it comes up through the feet, said both Miro and Lorca — the tone invents the eye. Dancing always striking poems shrinking — inverts the nose. Everts the rose. No other poem than in the inner coils of melody uncooking in the corridor. Would the rediscovered past instruct at noon where the attic pays homage thus far.
Allen Tate: "Cotton Mather would have burned her for a witch."
Sound a sense in language to button the saucer — advance it convinced of leaving. Lived right here in the hex of the righteous night. Lacuna on the moon... archaeology of the brittle, open window... portfolio in ghoul-seminar copse... deals had limped the letter new.
Songbird letter to sudden horribly Amherst. In place kept to stay at scholars. Sitting on the road like the footprint of a tree... collage of gates and exits...
According to the visual model, the rift in holding radical poets, even the movement of the toes, from within the object poetry thus finds a subtraction of the critical volcano. Fumerole more interior than learned, what has happened is conditional, indispensable space lodges in dissipation and retreat. Honed remarks guard the stolen joys. Poets will have to consider the short sorties between power and the eye. To see Rimbaud is to see the Amherst recluse. At the rim of the sea we open the other secret tomb. Pages exult poetic moments. In difficulty such as excited verse. As writing is a phase of the phrase. Rimbaud in the sea among semicolons succinctly drifts. Behind the idiosyncratic ambiguity, clearly "you" in her piano, time yet who loves the hours joined in long-world poetry — it is midnight in the poem in any era.
Mysterious footstep, birds. Evening marshmallow in earsight of the spirit. Unprecedented isthmus, who could think, unhappy letter-scarf yodeling in a cloud. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our private worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our public worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our anti-worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our arable worlds.
Believe the camera and withhold the solitude in your hat. Filigree of probability blossoms evanescence. Ahead of the hummingbird across the river we are writing a new index of alcoves among the mountain ranges. The long scarecrow disappears into pizzas of attention. We have no letters and very few futures. It's as if therein the puzzle had no idea. When Dickinson howls, we listen. A glue-infested language lives behind our thoughts. A box of candles... the play of coiling minuscules... constructed spells glow like messengers on a piano... orchestrated knots tantalize and reveal...
05.13.2017
posted by mark young at 5:19 PM
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