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the minutes of Thursday night

Who:  myself, Philip Trussell, Eric Furbish, Doug Warriner, Farid Matuk

Where:  Philip's studio

Heat, mosquitoes, ice cold beer, wheat crackers.

decipher this best I can

read from Olson's accounts of meeting Pound for the first time at St. Elizabeth's.

Frida Kahlo memoir I Will Never Forget You: Frida Kahlo to Nick Murray (Farid is reviewing for P******** Weekly).  The stache was her thing.  NM's photographs look fake and beautiful.  Basically invented modern fashion photog.  We scrutinize the possible lighting scenarios for several shots. 

Scott reads dream poem "I smite in the ever brightening sun shard..."

Farid reads his poem "Do the Moth".  His poems break my heart, his deliberate incantation, precise repetition.  Bring you back to the vital noun.

Doug reads ranch poems, his trademark character sketches.

Eric recounts his wild dream, his wild "thump it against the fence" dream.  Mustache to the nape of the neck!

Philip wax on:

no vision sanctioned...free of hard facts (the new young)...functionalist attitude toward time...if still in the habit of blanking the brutal impact of the real...syntactic sprawl...the happy-to-just-be-babbling...pay rent to the underplex...all backs to the storefront as the transformation passes...postponing in advance all upward mind... "adrenaline hotplate"...sullen-faced laptopery.

PC is one big rubber on your brain

read Spicer, we love it, drunk and stunned.

Farid is bleeding.  (We took a break outside for air.  Doug then Farid rode Eric's bike around the lot across the street.  Farid returned bleeding and bruised.  Crashed in the alley where the gravel is loose.  Skinned palm and knee.  He seems calm.  Philip applies Peroxide, a little blood drips down the shin the remainder of the night, poor dude. )

A "Popish butt"?  Someone mentions this.  I cannot explain.

Philip is reading Spicer aloud. I'm writing this.  Farid is still bleeding.  Eric is poised at the edge of the bed one hand over another, listening.  Doug is crosslegged - will leave when he can drive.

some stuff is taking flight

one keeps reading the stuff

clock ticking thursday night

here's a sound emitted, I

mean: __________

--

Farid is bleeding (a poem)

negotiating alleyways

is tough drunk

bicycle or not

line up the humans along the curb.  garbage cans high five and stagger home to sleep.  Until next week.

a hungry chef is a fool, y'all.

don't look up there

you'll scare yourself

floyd ponders the summer heat

photos by K-dawg

i smite in the ever brightening sun shard.  i drop kick my things to do.  i am doing.

nerve endings have withered.  the sun is hot on my neck.  cover my neck with my hand and the sun is hot on my hand.

...in undisclosed location, hands together, eyes upward. 
...spinning in his chair with psychotropic philanthropy on his mind.
...away from work and thus he is...away.
...trashing the home his mama cleaned for him for his birfday.
...snapper is evil mooded and dreaming of paradigm shift.

the dream says if you relax and ply the wind with your weightless form you will not blow out to sea. 

the dream says lean into the land above which you hover.  if it is a building you aim for simply think that way.  the wind is not really a wind but a hand.

the dream says screaming is commonplace if only echoes of the original sound.

the dream says the tighter you hold something the more probable it is to eat you.  if you eat the thing you hold so tight you will confound the dream and may short circuit the plan.

the dream says the thunderhead in the belly is something else entirely and should be dealt with as foreign entity.  in other words, walk backwards into the sunshine.

the dream says that for all that loafs you will shoot your eyes around the room of the dream.  the room of the dream is not important.  all that loafs is not tied down and may blow out to sea when the gaze is broken, when the roof is let go.

the dream says there is no roof ever.

the dream says love is an anger for the ocean.  a storm that swivels where you dare not look. 

the dream says look nearby for your eyes.  in the eyes of others who glide beside you at differing velocities, screams vary in their mouths and words are an ancient myth no one you've befriended comprehends.  and there is no time for comprehension.  eat the eyes to stay afloat.  find the eyes.

I too am the center of the universe.

the minutes of Thursday night

A little late posting this but here is a jumble jangle of drunken notes from Thursday night (not necessarily my own which were most illegible)

Participants:  myself, Doug Warriner, Philip Trussell, Eric Furbish, and Farid Matuk.
Location:  Philip's studio

coffee, beer, soda.  wheat crackers.  and earth heat.  and earth heat.

it started outside, scattered around the stoop, each adding to the beer pile.  doug excited to talk about the fiddle shop he'd been to and the stand-up-bass like a pregnant lady in the cab of his truck - "i'll hit you in the baby."  inside Philip read some full-lined poems, tipping his normal scale a little away from the discursive and toward the phenomenal (maybe even he'd qualify those terms to within an inch of their lives).

-

Doug fucked with the a/c.  not really, but some thought so.

Scott with a suite of parking lot poems.

Doug evoked so-and-so in panties.

Farid stumbled over some old notes.

Eric kept his beautiful posture.

-

aion and kundalini.  the same fluid directed upward becomes intellect, directed downward becomes sperm.  homunculus, out of nowhere.

doug in a snowfield punched from the inside by clear boy.

jefferson / adams letters.  weavers in virginia (?) are better than those in massachusetts (?).

farid, shirtless.

'slimefall of slang'

the people you trust absolutely.  observing without understanding.

phillip says 'goodnight house' and blows a kiss.

drag the cans, etc and dump the cans.  See you next week.

Josh Corey talks of Effing Magazine #3

"...Effing inhabits its saddle-stapled skin with more grace than most."

"it tastes horrible in pies"

great post yesterday from Geof Huth