Friday, June 28, 2013

Old King Thomas Cole and the Wandering June (Heat Wave Corollary)

inside of its serene and looming gelatinous head
I beheld a curious toy of candy
with wild and flowing mutton chops
and a pompadour of optical chimericality
reminiscent of a praying mantis
of 'striped fire'
and below this head-dress
I saw the hollering head
its one flat tooth angled outward
and the head Popeye like
but somehow Hungarian
but with a 'checkered bandito string mustache'
which somehow encoded the tale
of Thomas Cole's meeting with the portrait painter
known only as Stein, a wanderer, and germane
to the fit as a fiddle boy who give earth
the Hudson River School,
the American Grotesk.

No sense of other, no sense of self, Marsyas and Apollo both captured by the Alien-Han hybrids,
their infinite jester 'skinning the flute' Magyar style, and dressed in dyed buck, their helmets like soft suede crocodiles inlaid with snail glass.
The world tree in a jug
into a white, red-eared

"We must indeed rather be convinced by the effects of our own arguments, for we are the origin of all matter." -He came to me slowly proffering rewards for hard service in toil.

The Wit's brain is a rudder, the color of steering, that hierarchy castes no shadow vvagguely is the sign of its reticence, neatly ordering the braun by nearby echo to tassle, or taste, or for the house of Psybure, for the censor to waste, these common articles
of plain, as wrapped around a bell in bellicose and cozy pranciple.

ID before ID
and DION
before the fall, trace out the list of revolts,
trace out the list of quellings.
Red Rover,
Red Rover,
a quantum clover loaf toad.
"Big Bell Genes"

More numinous than Jesus, Strindberg in his youth learned to bellow
as Carpocrates' jarring maw, words both followers and awe:
"Are they going out, or coming in?"
Stringberg subtly issues the DELTA.

As Jesus I walked as a Scotsman, high collar
and rubber duster.
My cuffs are crusted in sugar and bugs,
and my mustache is sprinkled 
with Absinthe.

I adore this raitre, this spectre, this principle of growth
denatured by wild ululations from an unknown land
of towering runes and ladders.
(Nous of Butterfly)

In oracular speech there is no desolation, for the oracle
identifies wholly and completely
with the singular body of matter,
and the indefinite formulas
of its progression, digestion,




coinage upon its confus-ed foam

Mesoi-Anu-Naki-Knoummo (the word nourished by blood)

.and. Hybrida
banished to Kefalonia
where the carpings of anamnesis
would sparkle, change by way of theatre
into invo-luting lines
of Ptolemies / lewd
Dion struck down in his protest
at the end of a long journey
philo-peripatetic eclectic
Rufus enters Catullus
O Palestinian teacher of Cicero
our mixing forms the middles
Ascalon transfigure Antiochus
the priests of Ptah would marry royal blood
Antiochus IV Epiphanes
Meillassoux 707 for hieroglyph
licentious behavior, steadfast
and pure, Meno asking Socrates?
What is eclectic to the soul is
a corrective to the machine,
the Rosetta stone was an
offering to priests in a time
of upheaval, and epiphany.
Elvis in Memphis will turn
the microphones to Djed.
Praesens - Sen, to copy
in clay.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

The Turning Road

beyond the purple hills
that is the perimeter of a bowl
a horse carries a koto along a turning road
in which a tunnel enters

several tall orange Plane trees
take up the clause of the light
the purple hills are a canopy
of interconnecting spires

near the edge of the turning road a
man in trousers carries a green vase which
is small but heavy (petit mais lourd)

trees rise up like steam
from the bowl
small is my lord,
who sits in the hidden
swimming pool,
an anchor upon his hat,

μικρή αλλά βαριά - awakening
all of sapience - the leisurer
finds an incline on which
to view those lovers

who stand beneath a spinning
green vase which hovers - will
it bloom - her lamentation the
laborer before them

there is one fiery tree
at the center, the cedar,
whose footfalls present a door
of white oak

her hands reach up
into the canopy, the cacophony,
of purple flames, the laborer
is huddling with a red bladder,
the snake-like inner path

the gondolier of horses
is burning red, his image
destroyed by the wall of the
turning road as his distance

he stands and guides,
as the charioteer, chairless

there is a distant black
stone railing among red trees, the
laborer takes down the koto
from the ferality, from the
hoarse, mad, colors

obey me, this bowl,
this depression before it,
chrompact, chronact, the
charioteer passes through
a golden hovering wig of fleas

which hang
from a lavender tusk

The turning road
is an anthro-terrain
the koto disappears
in a distant hole,
the lovers are crushed
into a verdant vase,
spinning faster and
faster, the feral
horse of color

in the turning road
its mane explodes

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

my two sense worth

Financial Success Can Be Hubris (Are They Robots or Gentle Dolls?)

Snarly Yarn Qua El
but nonetheless palpableer ear
putty nonesuch rejection samwise
uncle marfa yule alice stein intrude
garcon training vehicle
napkin snarlin' quay lyre gong ja
putti smackin' rumpole the baileys
cream fizzwich dunagee
alice becomes the caterpillar
tophat hooka
rabbit hooker

old blue face el
accordion caterpilliker bong
i pick you to see
my glossy yellow horn
i pick you to see
my otter skin muff
which enshrouds the hang ten
the aloha
the diebenkorn painting of the oracle
her tripod of three translucent flint fangs
tied at the top for a bunt of thumbs

a bun of thumps
how can we add a single small pickle
to an otheriwse dignified Turner
with a distant bridge and maidens?

put it on the vine
leave it pulling out all the stops
of a pea-green insipidity

crossing the brook
i found the cold waters
flowing down straight over my chests
i held onto the cold stone
the wet weight enlightening
the bosom

the mangy oratorio
now finally exitting
its excesses of deliberation
our hound
that happy fellow called
Montesquieu's Organs

a genesis and apocalypse
conjoined in the orgasm's dorje
the fullest constable
would have sell in its own
by then unpopular gallery

Asterix Clues (Closed Sound Form)

syringa gryllus à survivre. Cadastral gradient parasite continuing egg architecture language. weird life ascending accidence, axe of dins. syringa gryllus à survivre the cadastral by cadastral. video skull altar escritoire (mucous). its guitar music. snakes perform as rays standing stiff erect as cobra spitting venom from these lovely stone living room eyes, the bedroom eyes are inhabited by elegant scarabs filled with delicious jellies of jangled nerves. Hash. Hash Assassin Odalisque Womb Pillow:
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Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Subtle Transfigurations of the Representation

homely crowd


only moving together
not much stamp

the final element of its jaunty
kesh-thad lake
in hats of pale blue and olive
(bowlers) "floating"

the rower is dressed in something like a suit
of plastic salmon eggs
and the boat is black

there is a plain sign
almost Monty Pythonesque

it doesn't read
and you can't see the tri-pod

it says
and all those hats
floating like molecules

or a quango
of differing dimmits

homely crowd

"The Subject"

assembling the generative? generating assemblies? manifesting manifolds, or an infestation of many foldings? randomly, ramdonly, ramblingly, I started connecting the work of Paul Neagu this morning, to that of James Merrill, and the reason for that, I guess, are the tables, tables that are sculptures, that are altars, that are planchettes, and so, in the spirit of Neagu's cosmogonic use of the "hyphen" and Merrill's use of the OUIJA, and as well in Neagu's GAG, or "Generative Art Group", I just wanted to see if any random connections could be made that would stick, or resonate at all. I opened up Merrill's _The Changing light at Sandover_ on google books and just ran my scroll bar down and stopped and waited until it loaded that page and this is the page I generated:

What struck me as interesting is the section beginning:

In darkness. An imagined dark, a stage
Convention: domed red room, cup and blank page
Standing for darkness where our table's white
Theatre in the round fills, dims ... Crosslight [...]

Which, if you continue on, is obviously a sort of description of the workings / wanderings of the planchette on the ouija, but the description is 'built' in such a way as to recall all of the major elements of the structure which Neagu used throughout a large portion of his career in various forms which he developed as a piece called "The Subject Generator" (1975).

You can find various pictures of the device:

From "Out of Actions" (Schimmel):

A 1974 pencil drawing of the object labeled, "The Subject," clearly offers evidence of the fact that the object is an anthropomorphic representation of the artist himself and the objects placed on its surface represent not only the "new subjects" but the elements of energy it generates.

this drawing gives insight into the meaning of his work. By literally drawing a parallel between himself as artist and "The Subject," he suggests that the powers of generating art are likewise transferred to "The Subject." [...] "The Subject" is a meta-art artwork: a work that embodies all the possibilities and preconditions for art.

In a way, Merrill's piece does something similar, and I think this is a standard poetics trope, I mean, really it's the way language itself functions. When you write something, like a poem say, people will say, "Have you read Merril? Or Funkhauser? or whatever, and they may not, but, what I'm getting at, is this avatarial displacement, this object-subject, or, as Sloterdijk calls it, a nobject.

But look how beautifully Merrill calls up the self as a creative act, the distance and the subtlety of the portrayal:

About us, these bright afternoons, we come
to draw shades of an auditorium
in darkness

So, with a gracefully bifurcated sense, "About us" becomes environmental, but also "about us"
a narrative told about 'us', and that narrative and environment would be 'bright afternoons'
feeling almost like clothing in this space, bright afternoons, is somehow an expression of an aboutness of persons, that transfiguration is continued and reworked in the next section, but in an even more abrupt framing in "we come to draw shades - of an auditorium in darkness'
this is something of a three-fold manifestation, drawing as in drawing images, drawing as in pulling out, or attracting, or abstracting, but even more, it makes of "The Subject" a sort of architecture, the architecture of generativity... And so, I guess I am trying to point at "The Subject" as both a local agency in the standard sense, but then, as with both of these pieces, see it as an emblem of a higher, or more abstracted generation, as in a person's actions are understood as local events, but each of those events is part of the general sum of events by means of something like 'the butterfly effect' which I take to mean it has some 'computational' content, it partakes, or really, is partaken of, as a total historical actuation, ie Syntaxis. But as I have written before, that event nobject is unable to be seen exactly. We understand the principles, but the nobject (The Subject) is vast. It is interesting to note another of the titles of Neagu's work. He performed and reperformed a piece called "Blind Bite" in 1971, 1972, and 1975)

And then there is the curious set up in the poem itself, which along with some of the more fang-like versions of "The Subject" give me pause in their 'vampirics' and which do tend to set up some kind of nested or parasitical image.. Once again, Merrill's is very subtle, one has to intuit the image almost, or even moreso, 'perform it in your mind':

domed red room, cup and blank page

You already have auditorium word implanted
and auditorium gives depth to domed red room
but also heightens the sense of soundings

dome dread room (or rune)

The red of the dome being so quickly followed by cup
fluidically fills the cup with something like blood, or maybe just paint
or the red is a displacement of 'read' as the cup is immediately followed
by the page.. In my mind I see a page splashed with blood, but also
a performance action using something like paint..

These are pretty standard tropes of making art, and Neagu's "The Subject" could be any software avatar which is commonplace these days, but there isn't a whole lot of poetics of the avatarial self as an element of historical computation going on. Alan Sondheim has worked with these themes, and the theme itself is worked out blindly in everything anyway, from pop music, to fashion, to politics, because what it describes is an emblematics of the materiality of memic exchanges, and of viral or innoculatory force in semiosis. But I guess what attracts me to this period of the 70's is the sort of frontier quality of the work, its roughness, and by contrast, its subtlety, or eloquence.

In "Out of Actions" it says:

Beginning at the age of about sixteen in 1954, Paul Neagu began to evolve a cosmological theory of aesthetics [...]

And here I am at almost 46 trying to do exactly the same thing.. I guess some of us just work a little slower.. Paul Neagu died in 2004, and James Merrill in 1995. In the meantime, I think it's safe to say, the world has been "Gradually Going Tornado" in "The Changing Light"..

(the blind bright spot of where we are)

Good Evening, Gentlemen.

Neagu Photo Archives at Richard Demarco

Long Interview with James Merrill at Paris Review

Monday, June 24, 2013

Two Minds Conjoined By a Spittle of Happy Hands

klook desh fleer
the quonset snake flourished
where platforms hide the arc
old redwood logs split down the middle
and hoisted up on iron cleats
the legs of the snake for minting fresh
klook, lest fear would veer the image off
a diving board at the end into a safely ratcheting gourd
quarry found
a lone emblematic deer hounds high up the final nib like conquest
of the buried pen
his antlers tied with colored yarns in the manner of a racing llama
a foetus curled up sleeping
brown and warm in the hole left by a halved aguacate'

koolk shed reel unrolling yarn
by the thousand pound spread
old Ezra as if
Arcimboldo had piled sea-besmirched animalcules
rays and urchins and sunfish and living goop
up into a veristic bust the collossos of Rhodes
rising from the lagoon in Venice
Veni Vidi Amici
all things sliding apart into images
they are not

noted basil bushes flanking the diving board
basil bushes of a height not standard

and the bare feet
of the little florian child
bony and clean
as replicas

the diver steps expertly
into carved footprints
the depth varying
and the board itself

a lithophone
of phonolite

and the water
all of sounds nous that sad
perfect camphor

culled before the swelling
a metal rhombust

cuts the beast in half

Friday, June 21, 2013

On the Surreal Pontine Opera of the Absurd Sublime

Responding last night to the magazine/art media moguless Louise Blouin's tweet:

My spirit animal is a Wren, don't ask me why Just something nice about its feathers And that magnificent pecker

I wrote:

Aah, "The wren, with little quill." Midsummer Night's Dream--Song / small throat - loud song (courage)

        She favorited the tweet, but will she remember the artist with her wallet? Probably not. Later last night I was enjoying dreaming at Horace Vernet's duo of Pontine Marsh paintings with a pot of Gao Shan, using both the web, and a few books of my own to trace the criticism of Vernet. The books I was using were Crossing the Channel: British and French Painting in the Age of Romanticism by Patrick Noon, and Baudelaire's The Mirror of Art. Horace Vernet was not a well liked painter by the critics. Baudelaire professed outright hatred, but the public adored him, and I think all around they are all correct. Horace Vernet is nobody's idea of an ideal painter on any account, but the two works he did concerning the Pontine Marshes to my mind speak volumes about the period just before the advent of say Melville's Moby Dick, when the philosophical concerns of Romanticism were lined up with an uncanny sense of the sublime as an adventure, or as an enchanted place where ruin and danger combine accidentally into beauty, and/or sorrow, or success. In Noon's text he mentions the critic "Pillet" providing what he describes as a 'considered, if ultimately unfavourable assessment' of Vernet's Hunting in the Pontine Marshes "likening it to a stage set for an opera about bards and druids" which doesn't exactly sound negative, and which is completely ironic, and exactly wonderful, when you figure out that Pillet is Fabien Pillet, whose son was Léon Pillet, "a French journalist, civil servant, and director of the Paris Opera from 1840 to 1847. A political appointee, he was probably the least successful director of the Paris Opera in the 19th century." But, in a way, I think Pillet actually hit on something. There is a stageyness to the scene, but what salon or academy painting of France wasn't guilty of that! What I find interesting is the subtle biosemiotics of the piece. The way that there might be an implied, or 'applied', ecopoetics concerning something like 'a poetics of the spaces of decay figured as an architecture of the sacral, or the real. With nothing exactly grandiose going on but a hunting trip, the picture becomes about the sublime as aesthetic rapture, a rapture of the real, or even better, the irreal, because this is certainly an idealized space, if not a direct proto-type for visionary surrealism, but I wouldn't have painted a hunting trip. So I guess in a sense I do line up with Baudelaire in a certain way, but, I also appreciated other things. There is a sort of comedy of representation going in the piece which makes it into something wholly unhistorical. When I first looked at it, I saw the huge U which is made by combining part of the fallen white tree corpse's branches with the crutch-like branch of the darker tree supporting it as an oarstay? That empty oarstay combined with the fact that the boat is being propelled by a gondolier-like companion seemed, well, oddly Rousselian. To make a cryptic monument of an oarstay is just really great. I mean you could take it to a Minoan horns of consecration kind of place, making the marsh an analogue of the labyrinth, but in his jaunty special hunting costume, I could only read in a weird dandyistic poetics of absurd boat components. Then, I started noticing that the broken tree off to the left looks exactly like a sperm whale head bursting up out of the sea, but this painting was made nearly twenty years before Moby Dick came out.
And then in the foreground is this curious, odd, "brontotheridian koala tree" which is completely ludicrous, but wonderful, just barely deigning to stick its tow, or claw in the water? And the comic pièce de résistance is the explosion of orange confetti feathers positioned ever so compellingly near the end of the hunter's gun. Just like a cartoon BANG! but prettier, a starburst of feathered boas?

The other painting also has an even more subterrean feel to it, and in a way, it somehow prefigures Jules Verne for me. The logic employed by Baudelaire in his critic is very bitchy and odd, but also sort of understandable. He says that Vernet is 'chic' and 'poncif' in which case he means shallowly readable, and easy, and or cliche'd in gesture, I guess.. I like where Baudelaire says he hates painting "manufactured to the sound of pistol shots", to which I can only reply, Fuck you Baudelaire (chuckling as I write this), you try it, it isn't that fucking easy to paint this way in a 'field studio' in the muck.. But whatever.. I love to rejoin the olden times and to just attempt to see or feel what they were about. It's all incredibly charming and of a peace for an old hippie like me, drinking high mountain Gao Shan from Taiwan. Baudelaire in a sideswipe calls Vernet a little Vaudevilliste, but if I were Vernet, I would take that and treasure it. Against the vicissitudes of war and nature who isn't a clown? And a fine thing for Baudelaire to cry clown when he so carefully cultivated his own weird skinny caricature of a Pierrot of sex and gloom.. Criticism is fine, but associationism is finer. And who could have asked for a more mythic romantic place to hunt than the Pontine Marshes in the early 19th century, full of little more than disease and bandits, only a brave and well-prepared man went there to 'sport', and maybe that's the point of all the criticism, really...

Gratis Faun Foam and Belchwater Elegante' (Gryllus Fizzle the Stude and Voirade the Vaudefilliste')

for shroof von eidenhirn
do the cavities sterch hinther
their bibbubbled bells a sweeurlon touch bit
beak hollow waytheewareling kiffcoff osset to a bridge of birds
lifting itself my sentense between the valconies hedges
parrot cups keeping repeating feeti fetti constant
unstant its inst-prop-teller going honk sward by the inible dellfen
murshi honshi bolus

the hallucina green or what we say

the solid green radish of a tooth
soft to carve and craving the transparent flint feather
from the dual chin flange
these two quill go out from the side of the jaw
like pheasant origami steel
but glass white or cloudy milky jade
the eyeballs spinning 4500 rpm

revolutions per moment
the head as controlled as a sieve
strangely weighted by commerce with a supernatural voice
of velocity

the gyre of its langue is sick but begins a spinning of white hot spartx
which mark the paper walls of the floating house kite
nothing as real as nothing
nothing as fantastic as regret

the cold or ever warming solstice of its heart
is a hole in purpose

high up so that the citizens are sucked off
then sucked out
kicked out to the faun of space
by a hollow shroof filled thumb
the butt of a regal visionary blankness

the lithop toe of divinity
which idly snirks from nowhere
out of frames of burning glass flowers
smoothly conticulating armadillo insectoid armorlings
like smoothly involmultotuing letter
which war even before the voice of the word is born
its name an elegant figure of interconnecting door shafts
like hairs kissing secretly before the monster judge of geometry
which like a jug
is bandaged and helmeted
and sits there drunkenly bemused

skyballs crossed
for burning water

oh my dank confusing parasol
my never never sewing shine makes

wigmanta slides and skitters
the whole earth process like a rooster tale

that ominous V like yellow torque of beak
that infinite tininess
and the whole belch of star delicate machinery effaced
for the ominous structure of what is there
is here
discretely mixed and
by commerce controlled
as if by birds lifting evolutions slides

and honshi thumbs as sucked insectoid armadillo hedge parrot cups'
osset sterch hinther their glass white voice of beak that infinite process carve
judge of spinning cold purpose hot regret the tale that yellow dank confusing
constant unstant its sward a spinning hollow monster feather from quill go
blankness the lithop two mark its machinery effaced for supernatural flowers
smoothly what is star

delicate regal itself
my steel but rooster valconies nowhere
out of by ever jug is before velocity
the toe of word
craving real
there is the whole up of its whole earth bridge
aside of chin flange these with so high butt of war even
walls touch the heart to a visionary torque
'of like a hole' sense

between waytheewareling kiffcoff born its drunkenly bandaged
warming going fantastic

skitters the begins
the voice dual ominous eyeballs floating house V like name armorlings
like smoothly moment head green or eidenhirn

a downy brain on jade chicken talons
its eyes the dead coins cut from poet's tongues

do out from space by bolus
the hallucina gyre say
the solid nothing nothing as inst-prop-teller shafts
like hairs bemused skyballs crossed for the divinity
which idly there per tooth soft to sieve strangely

peasant origami of the cavities
of the interconnecting door burning glass
that snirks from solstice

of the what we
the faun structure
of involmultotuing letter langue

elegant figure of a feeti fetti bit beak weighted never sewing
honk off then inible dellfen murshi sucked out kicked
milky jade the spartx
which kissing secretly
to a sweeurlon shine
makes wigmanta my
of burning water oh
keeping repeating citizens' parasol
my never bibbubbled bells helmeted
and sits green radish the paper before
or tininess ponderous odd and is by commerce
the ominous sick transparent flint geometry which
like belch cloudy shroof filled white
a shroof kite nothing
as here too
as frames of conticulating jaw like hollows
this pernicious

awful yammering
of molecular beatitude

hau its=cling to ink black leaves
ladders the abstracked cowl-drum


Thursday, June 20, 2013


Schnosch gives free access
to helm holt's zensation of cochlea
as touched by christian
in the hairy parched body
of music as imagined


Amongst the sconsiti I
am alone with my calerson of ecrala
reemb by añureco; then gastypt
my dkeds I asked the derbutd
to shestric with me, its psycieve
and mine in the quilism promit, just
the modions of us; then I sigh
for the laybum cannot marsoti,
and my hodpid goes emptily along
with me never saying a spine;
with no other whemisms here, I can
but ectab these fluessi for bosif;
and the rest can be narrenmull'd
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way, in
luck and misfortune's

The sucking funnel's fortune,
you lay in poetry:
John Merrick (I dream of Genie).

A History of Waldenses? [Ornery Old World] &Tea with Thor.

There is a strange poetics, an historico-political onomastics to see, in the choice of place, and especially its name, in the object of Henry David Thoreau's Walden; or, Life in the Woods. Thoreau himself ventured, or compiled an interpretation:

from Chapter 9, The Ponds

Some have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly paved. My townsmen have all heard the tradition -- the oldest people tell me that they heard it in their youth -- that anciently the Indians were holding a pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as high into the heavens as the pond now sinks deep into the earth, and they used much profanity, as the story goes, though this vice is one of which the Indians were never guilty, and while they were thus engaged the hill shook and suddenly sank, and only one old squaw, named Walden, escaped, and from her the pond was named. It has been conjectured that when the hill shook these stones rolled down its side and became the present shore. It is very certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond here, and now there is one; and this Indian fable does not in any respect conflict with the account of that ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so well when he first came here with his divining-rod, saw a thin vapor rising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and he concluded to dig a well here. As for the stones, many still think that they are hardly to be accounted for by the action of the waves on these hills; but I observe that the surrounding hills are remarkably full of the same kind of stones, so that they have been obliged to pile them up in walls on both sides of the railroad cut nearest the pond; and, moreover, there are most stones where the shore is most abrupt; so that, unfortunately, it is no longer a mystery to me. I detect the paver. If the name was not derived from that of some English locality -- Saffron Walden, for instance -- one might suppose that it was called originally Walled-in Pond.

Here then, is an old timey example of what today we might call 'disjunctive synthesis'.. And other commentators have lightly interrogated Thoreau's explanation and have produced very reasonable responses: 

"I suggest that Walden Pond's name may have evolved from "Walton", an English place-name traced back to the (1087) Domesday Book's "Waltuna", which in turn is thought to trace back to an earlier name meaning "Walled Farmstead"." -Dick Miller

Mr. Miller even rousts up an image of the 'ancient settler' from Walden Chapter 5:

 I have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when the snow falls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old settler and original proprietor, who is reported to have dug Walden Pond, and stoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells me stories of old time and of new eternity; and between us we manage to pass a cheerful evening with social mirth and pleasant views of things, even without apples or cider — a most wise and humorous friend, whom I love much, who keeps himself more secret than ever did Goffe or Whalley;(10) and though he is thought to be dead, none can show where he is buried. An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden I love to stroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; for she has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can tell me the original of every fable, and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidents occurred when she was young. A ruddy and lusty old dame, who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her children yet.

What is wonderful to notice and consider, is that in these writings of Thoreau, there is an almost wry acknowledgement, or is it dowsing, of the actual scientific name of the phenomenon which we 'now know' created Walden Pond, namely that Walden Pond is an example of a 'kettle', or a 'kettle hole':

It is very certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond here, and now there is one; and this Indian fable does not in any respect conflict with the account of that ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so well when he first came here with his divining-rod, saw a thin vapor rising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and he concluded to dig a well here.

And here is a more formal approach from Wikipedia:

Kettle holes can form as the result of floods caused by the sudden drainage of an ice-dammed lake. These floods, called jökulhlaups, often rapidly deposit large quantities of sediment onto the sandur surface. The kettle holes are formed by the melting blocks of sediment-rich ice that were transported and consequently buried by the jökulhlaups. It was found in field observations and laboratory simulations done by Maizels in 1992 that ramparts form around the edge of kettle holes generated by jökulhlaups. The development of distinct types of ramparts depends on the concentration of rock fragments contained in the melted ice block and on how deeply the block was buried by sediment.

But it is to the 'thin vapor rising from the sward' that I am responding, but I have not been able to trace specifically the origin or etymology of  'kettle holes', or pot holes, except that it may be a geomorphological folk term or colloquialism, not based on their hollow then collapsing construction, but more on their final round form.

There is also the curious, and uncannily echoing chain of etymology for lake, or loch:
Old High German - loh; Proto-Germanic *lōgą (“site, situation, camp”);
Proto-Indo-European *legʰ- (“to be situated, lie”), and the related Manx, logh.

This has a nice reflexive quality, or gentle elemental irony when considering the poetic lineages of Thoreau vis a vis someone like Charles Olson, the big bear in the campsite being that echo between
lōgą and logos, and then further the irony of a Proto-Indo-European legh, or leg, to be situated, which calls up Isle of Man style Triskelionoid emblems for syntaxis, consciousness a 'site of the wandering site'..

But none of this material is what really caught my eye in beginning this today. What caught my eye was the resonance, and I must stop right here an point out the strange onomastic Attractor of Thoreau's cohort, namely Ralph Waldo Emerson. Notice that Waldo. Where's Waldo?

What really grabbed me, and I have no idea why, is the resonance between the glacial jökulhlaups
and the history of the Waldensians:

Waldensians, Waldenses, Vallenses or Vaudois are names for a Christian movement which started in Lyon, France, in the late 1170s. The movement was started partly in response to the schisms that had consumed the Catholic church in the 12th century and advocated a return to the vows of poverty and preaching of the Gospel as advocated by Jesus and his disciples in the New Testament. Originally a reform movement within the Catholic Church, the movement was declared heretical by 1215 and became persecuted by Church officials. Upon the rise of the Protestant Reformation, church leaders met with Swiss and German Calvinists and agreed to join with the Reformed church, adopting many of the Calvinist tenets and becoming its Italian arm. Although the church was granted some rights and freedoms under French King Henry IV with the Edict of Nantes in 1598, Catholic persecution rose again in the 17th century, with an extermination of the Waldensians attempted by the Duke of Savoy in 1655.

This led to an exodus and dispersion of the Waldensians to other parts of Europe and even to the Western hemisphere. While many Waldensian sects eventually were absorbed into other Protestant Christian denominations, active congregations remain in Europe, South America, and North America under the label of the Waldensian Evangelical Church. Organizations such as the American Waldensian Society exist to maintain the history of this movement. 

Both the contemporary and historic Waldensian spiritual heritage describes itself as proclaiming the Christian Gospel, serving the marginalized, promoting social justice, fostering inter-religious work, and advocating respect for religious diversity and freedom of conscience.

Now what I find fascinating is that the historical Transcendentalism seems really like a direct evolution or child of the Waldensian flowering. Notice its intimacy with the Waldensian lineage by way of Calvinism, and also its religious intertextuality:

Transcendentalism first arose among New England congregationalists, who differed from orthodox Calvinism on two issues. They rejected predestination, and they emphasized the unity instead of the trinity of God. Following the skepticism of David Hume, the transcendentalists took the stance that empirical proofs of religion were not possible. Transcendentalism developed as a reaction against 18th Century rationalism, John Locke's philosophy of Sensualism, and the predestinationism of New England Calvinism. It is fundamentally a variety of diverse sources such as Hindu texts like the Vedas, the Upanishads and the Bhagavad Gita, various religions, and German idealism.

You can see the echos very plainly, Waldensianism purged from Europe or combined into Calvinism finds its renewed expression in a specifically American context (eventually, and by much 'steeping'?) of the pious hermitage, and I say pious in the best possible way, for if only the pieties of Thoreau, were those of us all.. How proper, then, and beautiful, is the name Transcendentalism, for our walled-in wide open lake of logos, our Valley of Poetry, this depression. And though perennially, it does seem 'walled in', or "clause-phor-strophic", or even walled off, the revelation of folks doing what they is want to do, lives on.

Freedom from Determination!
Freedom from the Termination.
Oh Goddamnit!
It is interminable [Catalogue].

Walled gulf? [as Whalley and Goffe]

Wiley guff, as in 'to play the names game', as in the connecting of Thoreau's name as a French version of  the Norwegian 'follower of Thor' (Thorald, or Thor-vald) to jökulhlaups which in
Icelandic (a Nordic derived language) is glacier burst.. The 'jokey laughs' would then be that image of Thor with his hammer striking that submerged potential ice, or remnant, a remaining piece (peace) to build a kettle hole, with Mjölnir.

Mjölnir simply means "crusher", referring to its pulverizing effect. Mjölnir might be related to the Russian word молния (molniya) and the Welsh word mellt (both words being translated as "lightning").

The final pun, a movement, both trans-historical, trans-linguistic, and intertextual, a poetics
caught up in fragments as in a sluice feed..

The kettle pot tamped down by dancing Indians who "curse" out of character.. The  "old settler" who founds a well while dow-sing, and who sees the steam of the submerged kettle pot..

The poet-god who crushes one 3 dimensional bubble of culture to replace that bubble with his own
image or log of lake (loch)..

Tea as T, or Thor's hammer.

An image worthy of any Ming Dynasty poet riddler.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013


gum will break hole
and exocytosis gold
the sacrificial vehicle

gorgeous limb loping gong skin
goma abura
"they get together to tell fish stories"

Pauli Jung Bohm Hiley
Umezawa Hameroff
Wigner Stapp Beck and Eccles
Vitiello Primas

not snarl
gum could four stomach
four stomach the whole green heart's
countenance as gold
in bricks


like angelic and tessellating goats
infused by the strings of demonic joy

agents of all action
are united in the fold

sheep centipede mother
will lay her kraal bosom
upon our page skins

for a mail basket's
is in clue
dead heads arrive
selling T-shirts

purple koala poem

Eucalyptusk Umbilicuss

Our steam bath
fails disorder
a random bearded man

balance a pencil on his nose
even while the photographer

inscripseratis n-script-seraphis

For a goatcell in grandeur
hath fashioned a chandilier

and we in the ecstatic ballroom
are dripping with grasshopper grandchildrem

blessed by linings
of crimson

gravity gem