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HH Reflects on the Good ol’ Days
…but he forgets not Paris in the 30s, Not his good friend syphilis Or the opium dragon clutching his Smoke-engraved throat. Dinners with Mr. Pound were so Mondain, his every word an Intermezzo of lime and rosewater. When he scratched his deflated jowls The lice there played about Like spritely troubadours encouraged by the thick… Read more
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I love the smell of ash, but fear its fire.
Into a great perplexity my reclusive tithing gives wantonly to a little wish about a little dream I never as child ever had. Hopelessly confused, these obscurities reveal, so says my good friend Dr Freud, an unbroken chain of displacements psychically solvent, as things go, as the uncanny declares in silence. These reviling’s cut a… Read more
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My life interferes with its living.
My life interferes with its living. This some would consider treachery, but I know who pulls the strings and who forgives the criminal his crimes. Nearer to the last station of the cross, here is where most weeping happens, now that harshness enters hearts and onlookers finally witness the end, finally get their moneys worth… Read more
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Communing with Zukofsky
Writes “B 1” (unabridged version) Deaf musicians play deaf music… notes on sound look like sound. Yet in the ear’s mind slosh around unbidden, replete as cowbells in the pasty hands of the visionary. The sound so much floats that it is air on a carpet of thought. Bypassing actual surface sound, Instead sticking to… Read more
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“Il faut vivre dans le silence” (a scene from Goddard)
Il faut vivre dans le silence, she says, but only because she wants to be in films as a face whose language falls from her body and whose greatest act is disappearing in a Paris café staring into a glass of wine, a cigarette between her lips hanging like a vacant kiss in the movies. Read more
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The days leave me
The days leave me Unlived, eloping with The calendar of dead Seasons and hives of Warring minutes. I remember so many things, All vacant, an unruly Film of cut scenes and Unresolved development. Lost in silence, my Thinking reasons loss of Memory, maybe it’s what is Needed so the known, as it Dissolves into a… Read more
Umbriate Press Poetry 