The structure is mythologized to the extent that it is worshipped and repelled at the same instant

The structure is mythologized to the extent that it is worshipped and repelled at the same instant.

-er, DIU 19

"The Lime Works"/Thursday 10 pm - midnight/WRUB-SUNY at
Buffalo/October 20, 1994

Eskimo Lung We Magazine
Tory Miller SkittleRama/Screaming Slugs "
NEWBAND Silent Scroll (Joan La Barbara) Microtonal Works
Jin Hi Kim Eternal Way Komungo 'Round the
Margaret Leng Tan Primitive (John Cage) Sonic Encounters
Haydee Schvartz "Variationen" (Arvo Part) New PianoWorks
Tenko/Ikue Mori Rain Death Praxis
Lou Harrison Sonata no. 2 for Cembalo Music from Mills
Lois V. Vierk Cirrus (for 6 trumpets) Simoom
John Cage Cartridge Music Music for Merce
(realized by David Tudor, 1988) Cunningham
Steve McCaffery from "The Curve to its Answer Live at the Ear
Margaret Leng Tan "Gong" (fm Ancient Music Sonic Encounters
(Ge Gan Ru)
Joseph Celli Sky (S for J) Organic Oboe
Haydee Schvartz I Shesha-Shayi Vishnu (fm New Piano Works
Quattro Illustrazioni -
Giacinto Scelsi)
Thomas Buckner The Angle of Repose Sign of the Times
(Annea Lockwood)
Jin Hi Kim/Eugene Howdy Partner Komunguitar

** We play cassettes! **

To address the heteroglossia, you need many directions, and less rules to fall in line with.


Interesting report on the poetics conference/thanks for same.

Fascinated by the person who thought the "Canterbury Tales" dirty, as opposed to "Hiawatha" -- social conservativism and romantic nationalism continue their long alliance, I suppose. Will someone provide an account of Longfellow's "invented traditions" in this poem, and burst his bubble?


Poetry begins with what language cannot say (or perhaps,
because of ideological constraints, refuses to say). Poetry
exceeds its instrument (currently fashionable language-
centered work relies on its instrument, turns poetry back
in on its means as an end). Coltrane highlighted the in-
ability of the instrument to, in Williams words, "say what
needs to be said." The limit, however, should not be
confused with limitation, but rather, should be revered as
the malleable condition of dance. Between the possible and
impossible is friction, heat, fire (the virtue of words, someone
has said, is that they burn, and cannot be understood). Meaning
is not a statistically produced truth but an impossible gift eclipsed
by a future that is _always already_ determined.

The love that such a gift bears forth makes the world disappear.


Hungry, ignorant, depraved,

Let the masses all prevail,

All achievements down the drain,

Culture chiseled through millennia

To crumbs fallen by disdain.



my attention span grows shorter. my music and words nearly evaporate. a few haikus to illustrate:

Elegy (for a pop icon)

Underneath the bridge
By a slender thread you hang
Stomach full of pain


Denature me girl
Change my poison to blood
Teach me the meaning

Diet Of Iron And Dream

Walk on the fine line
Tally chickens and purge ghosts
Eat fossils and eggs

As I Lay Dying

Choking convulsions
Inexpressible delight
Dome of emptiness

–"Finney" if necessary


In a future we might best await together, cradled in

poetry's subjunctive embrace.

-Monotonous Ghandi, DIU XX

"It is all very well to enjoy the infinite
bliss of life after death, but it is preferable
not to have died at all."

Poetry comes into existence in the absence of poetry, where words and language become the objects of a near infinite number of experiments designed to animate a long since passed away corpse.

The experiments are interesting, but the corpse, however exquisite, is not. Even the stink, which for some time intoxicated the half-dead disciples of its cause, has become merely another of a countless number of environemntal signs of our collective desperation. The most serious of all work is the most comic, and the most comic the most tragic. The laughter is no longer joyful, but sardonic. Indeed, the most outwardly revolutionary of acts have become the most boring.

We learn to live on breath alone. We learn not only to lie profoundly (as the disaffected poet said, and to ask ourselves, knowing this, whether mendacity is the best policy), but to understand that the key to the dissapperance of the world itself has itself, with the world, dissappeared. The aura surrounding the false joy of our recognition that we are all ghosts, has become as repetitive (and thus boring) as the pseudu-political act of revealing "the corpse" for what it really is. We learn not only to live, but to live lacking death, so that the over aestheticized funeral of poetry lacking poetry -- the stillborn child of politicized art -- can finally come to an end.

Life has never been more than life experimenting with life. Poetry, at best, has ecstatically been both a lamentation and celebration of that fact.

–the As-Of-Yet-Undescribed Student Body

Let us not fall into the sea

Til its best time...

-as of yet dis-integrated student body, DIU 21


poems on the death of a goldfish;

baseball metaphors;

happy liberalism (remember Hubert Humphrey);

epics of artificial intelligence;

poems concerning chewing gum--the Juicy Fruit theme;

iambic tetrameter quatrains;

consumer advice;

recipes for smothered pork chops;

famous living poets such as John Ashbery;

instructions on refurbishing antique chifforobes;

Vachel Lindsayism-- boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM, and

good poems on electronic circuitry;

references to Chester A. Arthur;

rich people who'd pay to be mentioned in poems (i.e. serious

ennobling language;

poems about aliens who eats peoples' small intestines;

lyrics that turn on delicate points of etiquette;

heroic couplets;

exposes (as one says in ascii) of the meat-packing industry;

poems about how to use an arc welder;

the pancreas theme;

poems suitable to set for gospel quartets;

poems about happy middle age;


the theme of the foot, especially corns and ingrown toenails;

fried food metaphors;

images of water skiing;

the family farm, milch kine, the Grange, and so forth;

poems to be spoken by loose, flabby lips;

scandalous revelations about famous academic poets of the 50's;

poems about ice fishing;

fancy words, like "peignoir" or "puissant," used for their


poems about the new intelligent house appliances;

any thing as funny as the Coasters' "Poison Ivy";

poems on themes in higher mathematics;

adequate poetic diction: "yonder," "finny tribe," "cyberhacksaw";

rhythms suitable for square dancing;

poems about aliens who write Tide commercials;

mnemonic devices for the names of civil war generals;

skillfully managed Skeltonics;

poems that are really diesel engines;

secret messages ("the walrus was Paul," etc.);

pool halls;

hollow men and hollow women;

poets who take up the persona of the sage investment banker;

an understanding of quantitative verse;

poems about building or living in yurts;

carnivorous poems;

poems about aliens whose genetic code is encrypted on Pearl
Jam records;

poetry do-it-yourself kits;

the Latin names of medicinal herbs;

poems on the Vanity of Human Wishes.


I went to a poetry conference sometime in the 70's at which there was one of those poetry readings that go on all night. There were seven poems on the death of gold fish-- two in tetrameter couplets, one in Skeltonics, one which included three Latin names of medicinal herbs. I have really seen nothing like it since. In fact shortly thereafter it became unfashionable to mention any thing at all.

We once had a gold fish named bubbles, who lived much of the time on our kitchen table, and she was mentioned in poems by at least three visiting poets with whom I sat after dinner discussing Skeltonics and arc welding and drinking coffee. In those days poets spoke of serious matters.

Bubbles lived a long life for a gold fish, and when she was grievously flushed, it was no longer considered fashionable to write on that theme, so I wrote about my 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk, thus, substituting the death of my car, named after a mighty raptor, for Bubbles. It was a cunning stratagem.

Your assingment for next week is to write on the vanity of human wishes. This is a theme even older and nobler than dying gold fish, which itself goes back to the Sung dynasty. If you think you are not ready to handle such lofty material, you may attempt to remedy any of the lacks in recent poetry.

–The Poetry Work Chop Advisor

The while seven other knots hold you. The while you
nailed to your bed.
The while Trees in wet cement were branded.

The while, the while that you want to escape would die to escape.

Skrecic, it sounds the same in all the languages.

Skrecic, it sounds the same in the seven languages.

Skrecic, it sounds the same in the wet cement, the same
burning in the fires.

*** Sk. (Polish) : contort,


IF you look IN


-er, DIU 22a

available soon as a CD boxed set

compiled by John Denver

& featuring

Bernadette Mayer & Lee Ann Brown The Judds
Jed Rasula Jimmy Buffet
Steve Benson Jim Nabors
Ron Silliman & David Melnick Roy Clark & Buck Owens
Thad Ziolkowski Lyle Lovett
Charles Bernstein Roger Miller
Hannah Weiner Minnie Pearl
Johanna Drucker Reba McEntire
Marjorie Perloff Alabama
Diane Ward Roseanne Cash
Jean Day Carlene Carter
Don Byrd Porter Waggoner
Lyn Hejinian Loretta Lynn
Nick Piombino Garth Brooks
Carla Harryman & Barry Watten Tammy Wynette & George
Clark Coolidge & Michael Palmer Waylon & Willie
Stephen Rodefer Johnny Cash
Alan Davies k.d. laing
Abby Child Kinky Friedman
Bruce Andrews Charlie Pride
David Bromige Merle Haggard
Robert Grenier Boxcar Willie
Kit Robinson Hank Snow
Tom Mandel Conway Twitty
P. Inman Ernest Tubb
Tina Darragh Kitty Wells
Bob Perelman Johnny Paycheck
Susan Howe Hank Williams Sr.
Rae Armantrout Mac Davis
Michael Davidson Glen Campbell
James Sherry Barbara Mandrell
Ray DiPalma Jimmy Webb
Joan Retallack Red Sovine
Jackson Mac Low The Pioneers
Tom Raworth John Anderson
Mark Wallace Graham Parsons
Andy Levy George Strait
Jessica Grim & Melanie Neilsen Flatt & Scruggs
Jeff Derksen Jimmy Rodgers
Jerry Rothenberg Kenny Rogers
Fanny Howe Dolly Parton
Alice Notley Lefty Frizzell
Keith & Rosmarie Waldrop Jennifer Warnes & Leonard Cohen
Benjamin Hollander Freddie Fender
Leslie Scalapino David Lindley
Peter Gizzi Tennessee Ernie Ford
Ben Friedlander Slim Whitman
Rod Smith John Prine
Douglas Messerli Ray Stevens

We don't care if you are men or women, we don't want to hear your whining about shyness. You are Disney animals to us.

-I, Robot (A Feminist Collective), DIU 22a

poems on themes in higher mathematics;

How high the math? Here's one.
This piece invokes calculus in its title and in its slicing of time; it taps linear algebra (transformation matrices/direction cosine matrices) for its basic trope. But then, of course, it can't be serious. It actually imagines it's about something! Doesn't decry factions styles schools Mom Pop polyethylene hypocrisy corruption futility vacuity gore ennui MTV barbie ken corporations congress villanelles neckties haiku bank accounts cops advertising phallocentricity latex or meat. It just journalistically explores how big the little places get when informed by one particular absence. Just a corny love poem. Lost love poem. About the institution of higher yearning. And of course lower yearning. And yes, the vanity (and inescapability, Buddha not withstanding) of human wishes....

Delta t

The universe so local, no spot larger than light
spread in a sphere from a point source
in some length of time. In tiny time your few neighbors
matter nearly as much as your own last state.

It's rough and tumble in the femtosecond regions.
Time cut thin enough gets wide, lets mere possibilities
swarm out, very real just then.

How fast does the universe sample itself, anyway? Faster,
certainly, than mammals out here in our n-dimensional pun
where broad statistical shadows fall on a sudden present,
where Things persist.

I replay messages she left on my voicemail.

Delta t blues. Old devil vector forever
athwart the matrix of a given moment,
mine populated by more and more absences,
the growing collection of people I've lived longer than.

At work we import curves into right-handed model space,
rotation matrices tagging along in the files. But
when to apply the translation and which values
make the rows and which the columns?
Do we know the intent of the sending system?

Back in my office I punch up that voice again, weeks old now.
"I was just bored so I called you up," says one.
"I know you're dyin' to talk to me," says the other.

These, her other sayings, and my own image-seared neurons
comprise my poll, my examples.
Still guessing the sending system's intent.

When she lay at hand, real distance and small eternities
stood between us. We made each other out of samples,
applied our transforms on the fly, reached, at best,
adjacent neighborhoods. No single place.

Now her absence starts failing to fill every coffee cup,
only to surge as milliseconds gape between screensful of text.
Oh those eyes. However the numerous world moves me
from moment to moment, she's some wild diagonal.

–GK (not unhappily middle-aged)

Studebakers I remember but what the hell are Skeltonics?
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