If you could Believe It

Dear McK.
Thank you for the sweet link to the Tibetan lama who made my afternoon after pacing around the apartment waiting to ram my mind into the living room wall. Thank you for keeping me updated on emptiness--that unmovable television of spirits and numbers where the dralas seem to take shape, where those dralas are my own good source of terror. After talking to Elizabeth Bishop on the phone last night, we chased a few out of the room over a long distance call, the window half open, a thick air of consciousness characteristic of my facebook profile while I lay there in a dim light of disinterest. The cat and rabbit entertaining themselves in the living room, skirting around the looser threads of a sad and quiet wifi connection and at 7pm no city makes sense when associated with a solid box. Such is a symptom of Craigslist.com dot where are all my friends slash come and meet me for ciders in a bubble bath? It won't take a hot tottie in the lustful Buffalo snow to realize that we are nothing but individual karaoke tornado machines hibernating in our linked syntaxes as a consequence of post-hyper love and terror. A man in a coffee shop in Buffalo, NY says "Janet and the kids went to go see the Anaheim Ducks and said they had a great time" and I think its the most brilliant public utterance I've heard in months.

<3 you millions of %,
B.

Language is a tool to invent one self in the neutrality of the internet. The "poet" is a scavenger of news and culture, recycling what can be used again in the face a technological dark age.

Snow lusts out of the sky. Things accumulate in and out of memory, regardless, the commonality of both are attempts at hitting oneself. I can not work. I propose a documentary on "writer's block" in a series of color photo text-messages. There, it is finished. I am walking around the exhibit of this attempt in dark delight. In dark delight, there is cake or a face or a pornographic gerund swinging forth over me, under me, a pile of trees I crawl around on hands and knees. When someone's hello passed through me, I almost caught it, snapped. in half, halves. A half dozen carton of eggs made me feel so alive, all the uncooked food in the market did this to me, made me love you a little more. Like switching font-types I squeezed your hand when we got it right, that we could be so happy standing there in a poem.

pome

Dear Never,
When the roof caved in
a pale memory of seagulls
And the way they flapped
Like Kodak prints
I covered my ears
and looked up at you
oh sweet night
Pervading our collective webcam
Personalities like a dream
Parked the car and cursed
the flurry of mediation
hardening like snow
On our heads and we let it.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall, whose the FAMEST of them All

Sandy - Caribou
Dearly Beloved FAM,
My face is growing fingernails. Like the dream several years ago when my tongue was covered in molars and I walked around an art gallery loaded with a chamber of mirrors and I refused myself the pleasure of old age. I stared at my elderly self in that mirror and screamed and screamed. Now I am looking forward to it. Back from England but what does being back got to do with being away when our faces meet on this bloggy surface like Sleeping Beauty did to that witch or was it Lacan. Did you get my textmessage the other day that went "Its just hard to believe that thousands of poets use the same font-type. Its like the soviet union when everyone had to wear the same shoes." I sank and sank further into the bathtub when coming to realize that this was the case. As CLos suggested, I agree that we start wearing the same uniform. The same shoes. The same pair of TOMS for most of our lives. That way we'll be able to keep better track of each other in this post-hyper mess. Today the therapist said its a good idea to apply to oxford for the hell of it. But i can already see all of you chasing after twin sisters for miles around the manuscripts of CS Lewis in the Bodlean Library while i am running late for a manicure with a tutor. What is this life that we dream of but care not to live?

In the bathtub i joke around in the rose bubble water thinking about what Mallarme said "literature is made up of no more and no less than 26 letters" in tandem with the technological evolution of writing. In Starbucks-Toronto Anna and I saw a man with long curly cartesian hair writing with a fucken quill in cotton baggy tie dye pants. Anna gasped like "what is the world coming to?" and I just sat there convinced that reality is pure fantasy broken up into soft units of sound bites whereupon I wait for the canned laughter or applause button to siren at any moment I blink for it. I wait and wonder what will become of us when we get through the wave of our separate cities and collectivate into one solid gerund in a castle i am building out of fantasy numbers. That's how much i love you.

Heart of Lightness,
Bebe

pome

To Replay your Message, Dial One:

The animals were high in my mind
A million flamingos flocked and fucked
In that piece of hardware where I kept them
A row of peonies made the stairwell
From where we threw down the sonnet
Watched it roll and land invisibly
As a baby begins to grow from nowhere
The fishing line caught on the chandelier
Punctuation glittered and bounced from ceiling to floor
The unanswered cellphone call was that empty quote
We had waited for all afternoon
Like a breast on Youtube none of us got fed
Like babies in the playpen
Waiting for death to pick one of us up, pulling calls
Out from the dark, replay them all, my friend
Who are you now.

In this Autumn Uselessness

In the early, linear version of art's relation to consciousness, a struggle was held to exist between the "spiritual" integrity of the creative impulses and the distracting "materiality" of ordinary life, which throws up so many obstacles in the path of authentic sublimation. But the newer version, in which art is part of a dialectical transaction with consciousness, poses a deeper, more frustrating conflict: The "spirit" seeking embodiment in art clashes with the "material" character of art itself. Art is unmasked as gratuitous, and the very concreteness of the artist's tools (and, particularly in the case of language, their historicity) appears as a trap. Practiced in a world furnished with second-hand perceptions, and specifically confounded by the treachery of words, the activity of the artist is cursed with mediacy. Art becomes the enemy of the artist, for it denies him the realization, the transcendence, he desires. -s.sontag (Aesthetics of Silence)

Dear Carlos,
Its here, in the this passage, that i hide and duck from hard & softwares in order deny myself the possibilities of "give meaning" to a concept having breadth of becoming a "work of art." I give up and resign instead of pursuing design. Like throwing arms up in the air in hostage position while also being the source of my own terror. At least you'd clap yr hands for this pathetic performance. At least you'd be the one laughing in the corner as real-time poet installation on our mutual playground. Tell me what this "cursed mediacy" is all about. Only you can translate this in however time it takes to toss 3 chicken nuggets out the window. Do we shop vintage because our perception is "second-hand"? Your subjectivity is mine inasmuch as the moon is the internet's or sky's.

Come to Buffalo so we can at least drive-thru McDonald's and share one happy meal as a token to this year's last supper. Fool, pick up your phone.

Oh Heart,
Bebe

pome for Carlos Ricardo Bolano

Search For Delicious - Panda Bear


Stop Facebook Chatting and Call Me

Again, I love you
Through the 3am bowl of thai noodle soup
Bending our heads around the castle concept
Like good neighbors on either side of the fence
Negotiating acres of land and acres of heartache
Somewhere in the Isle of France
You and Giogios in a car full of supermodels
The windows don't work
None of us work for what seems
Five minutes or five years
Outside of Paris laid flat as a book
Where our imaginations cross and flicker
And there is Johnny Duvernoy
Showering himself into the next iTunes song
Happy in himself the way we understand it
For ourselves. And I am jealous
Because Sabrina is jealous because
I like the way she gets jealous
It makes me want to curl my fists
Into ampersands in a fit of rage
I'll fight anyone who trespasses
Our pathetic syntax lined with rose bushes.

A Reincarnation of Paper

Dear Love of my Hair,
Its been almost one year since you left for Germany and I slammed the bloggy door. I am very thankful that you flipped open your phone while I flipped to the otherside of my hip in the bathtub. I call you from the second woodchuck amber cider thinking that i will be fowarded over to your voicemail box i can only imagine is full of voices left-over from weeks ago asking where you are and what you are doing. Hearing you reminds me of how much ilove you stretched from here on out to that castle somewhere in the isle de france. I've got several fams in a headlock on several acres of property you can imagine belongs to Hair Hearts Flip inc. & Fam School & Co. Big plans for the next two years it won't matter if we make it to oxford or not cuz i got other shit on the palette to secure the space of our consciousness.

Bebe