bounce and rhyme

“Bounce and Rhyme,”the handbill reads,“FREE for Babies under Three!”So we bring ours.We arrive at the libraryten minutes late,The Reading Roomfilled with noise,Cleared of books,Smoke, An ocean of motherscross leggedon turquoise carpet,Gurgling parcelsDangled in velour lap.Thank god, I am notthe only man in here.There is one. Two.I am possibly the oldest.But freshly shaved. We double parkthe

ensenada drive, woodland hills, 1969

The piano may not have been drinking, but I have; to a civilized degree. Purloined from the original German, here; the root and trace of it seeded from a sugarmegs microdot of a torrent sown, originally, in 2006. With supporting observations from John French.A roll of the dime. As invited within the offices of the

a dose of vitamin e [reduced]

Gustave Doré, 1886. In a good mood, then, I leave my wife dawdling over the pram in the more sanitary side of town and duck into the supermarket. Our sage bag of tricks has piled on one and a half lbs in the course of one spare week. Something less by metric alchemy. I do not

triage

Christmas Treeshave taken over ourPavements,Creeping out undercover ofDarkness,Flood Warnings,Dragged out out of bed to sober Up,unwanted guests.By morning they haveSuccumbed to frostbite.Sheddingneedles like so manyFingers. Toes.Walking backfrom the brink ofShrivelling,we step behind aDislocated limb,allow a woman tomove past us,Uninterrupted.Thanks, she yawns,Her breath aFog. Steaming likeWarm breakfasts.Tea. Toast.We nod and pretendto examine the tree,Stoopinglike Undertakers onThe Job,Measuring a

1010011010:~$sudo su

There was a time when all was word,from font of crackling spindleSearing Moses ear,to Albert James Freed on the AM dial. Before that too, the coiled copper wireof the fallen, whispering for Adam.Serpents. Rose seeds.Unplumbed wormholes in the garden. The nature of the word is virus.Binary. Hyperlinked. Self-replicating.It will not rest, in cave nor cache,what

all out to fink, inc.

…”La Fleur De Barbe” is not among those eight recordings of Dubuffet’s reissued by İlhan Mimaroğlu on “Musical Experiences” (Finnadar SR 9002). Certainly, it hails from those original pieces recorded by Dubuffet – in collaboration with Danish painter and ally, Asger Jorn – between December, 1960 and March, 1961; twenty issued on six 10″ LPs,

all out of ink, inc.

“Bowery Bum (May 1964) is the piece that occasioned my association with Dubuffet and opened the way to my discovery of his own extraordinary music (of which I eventually made a first commercial edition on Finnadar SR 9002). The visual impetus of the Dubuffet drawing, one of his Bowery Bums, suggested the form, the content,

behind the nib of sleep

This post has been amended, pending investigation into possible po-facedness. Sleep. No, not the recumbent John Giorno from Warhol’s 321 minute anti-film – premiering to nine people in total in a Manhattan loft on January 17th, 1964, two of whom fled within its first hour – but the absence of it. The dessication of self

fingers in the pies

Antonio Prohías, 1961. “A Ha to Doctor JohnsonSaid Scipio AfricanusLift up my Roman Petticoatand kiss my *@!$! Anus“ – William Blake, Complete. The following (quoted) piece first appeared the day preceding Hogmanay; under a different badge. I promptly reset it to draft, given my alarmism seemed a tad overblown. In hindsight, I’m not so sure.

the wrestler

Of all those odd jumbles of vowelsmy son brings with him to the world –the gurgles; yelps; indian war whoops –broken consonants, riddles, squawks,the strangest by far is that piercingscreech; a squeal of brakes on adodge scraping the corner, hubcapflapping, all this accompanied by tinyfists flung out over each shoulder,as he comes to in his