,

I must say (as my friend Robert Horvitz used to say) this is beautiful, giving voice to the stem and bark of the voiceless, giving bark to the stem and voice of the avatar. For the image is the limb and the nub, in a space where selves begin their coagulations, fictive metaphysics of coherency in a space close to slitting/splitting apart -

reMEMEber when we occupied a space where belief was not heretical or contrary, where she could touch our skin & every MEMEber of our body jangled with the absence of despair .... comMEMEunity never easily acquired, the struggle in the narrow lanes of concordances to layer our departures as an edgework which is secondary to growth outside the shell of the secular EGO. the avatar host is enzymatic inside our body, not yet the virtual resurrection that the reconfiguration of digtital corporeality will materialize.

the organic and synthetic inflected in conflicting shapes, the perfect circle found next to nowhere in nature and the cylindrical form of the tree, stem to limb, word roots, coloration without texture, and the angle of viewing is thinking speed, acceleration, combination, not crashing, among languages trying to find a way out of englisshe, it's bitter bark, though folk medicines also find palliatives there, even something as simple as a tisane, aren't there teas that come from the bark of a tree, distant memory of the melalucca, an australian tree, the paper tree, tearing the bark off and soft, you could write on it with a stick, the first notion of manuscript, the discovery that books are made of paper, the paper tree, something still of value, more value, more of value, more at value, what is the value of a book, ink, glue, paper tree, pepper tree, word stability equals ink.

not the tree, but the body; it's in the body, the first intention, motive/motivation - that's what's written, or the attitude of prone figures sleeping; the head dangles like a useless appendage from the STEM as if it were other than the extremity of metaphor...

Not the body, but the tree as cipher for a conspiracy in distribution, in print-making, in Gutenberg after effects, effervescents. Entreaty the translators to substitute private dreamsequences for what they thought the text should say. Why can I only write about the text, not of the text, by tEXTENSION I forget so easily what I have read, or make it my words to give it to you so you can make it yours. The society once in the forest never occured to log books from trees, when the clay made such a remarkable surface to mark the passage of events. Or in a parallel history the society in the trees, wooden computers brandishing the agricultual aftermath. Arborescent tech switches what transpires.

the text/sound is created from combining nine letters.

[t, h, e, n, s, c, y, b, l]

frequencies were determined by their number place in the alphabet
times a factor of ten & modulated by a factor of 100.

for instance other possible spellspells:

net yet bent she sent best set

these chests then seen bench test

so:

each sentence spells out the possible sounds that can be
played when they appear in the sequence.

Isn't that something. That is really something. Something. Yes. It really, really is something.

o wonders cease in prevention
for love cannot take cover
in rain that falls far away
my heart breaks for no reason
the moonlight mocks me
while strawberries ripen
I cannot dance here
the music is finer than my ear
children in pretty clothes
play tag, running after each other
men with magical words
devoted to the language
play love with scored words
synthesized compositions
compelling an audience
from a distance we watch
from behind the gate
swooned with the limelight
captured in silence

This gate's swing makes such an awful creaking noise. You didn't hear that, did you? Please don't look.. Oh so, what the heck.. Do you know Back Street Boys? Right, I'm joking... Zeppelin? a Z word, thought it sounded cool...Play a little song for me? and her, and he, and she... but don't tell anybody, I brought along a lawn chair, and he a bottle of wine, and she has a smile
that shines, that guy over there is a real nut, and that girl right there by the oak tree, she's a knock-out, but don't look, you know, knock-out, conk... and that guy over there, the quiet sensitive type, he's got it down, you'll see later, and well the gangs all here. OOP's, I guess not quite. Can you believe the noise of that gate?

I'm sure they believe in cranium and rocket. they've got this deal going. sending things, dreaming, the word goes forward with a rocketry unimpaired by hope. the message is that force is equal to half of the derived valance shipped in from birthplace or major US city. how are you and can the meanings -- the things between us -- implode? I have much to say before I collapse. the season of integrity has variable timing. please read more later.

mar(ch)velling more vei/neath/ling untram{pled-melled in bi-e-ttersweLLet (g)nostalgic deATHnial reel t'n't wreelroad traPvel the U.N. tram melded Italian trains atmosphere in the station memory alive today the funture knight travelell by Italianya rather>il untravelling t'm't be woound black upple won'ttt bexus theramin sameaim as(colbra) beftore the-if unravelletting but et then et to punravelt agrain and bargain t'i'tRavel

It goes so wide, it's difficult to focus. It opens up so that the rim is on one side and the rim is on the other. I drive so far across and there are always rims, always equidistant. They're attached to me; I recognize the Sign. What I mean is, what the road is, it goes with you. Am I the first to realize that we make our own reality; eyes closed, I can imagine myself standing still, and so I do. What could be wider: The bark on the thick stem or my desire to reproduce? Where am I travelling when I am situated in the midst of rims?

In class today we learned about the air cycle and the water cycle, we drew the arrows to show it going round and round, the air goes into the trees as carbon dioxide and the air comes out of the trees as oxygen and the air goes into the humans as oxygen and the air comes out of the humans as carbon dioxide, and the water steams off the earth and into the air to form the clouds and the clouds rain rainwater down on the earth, and we drew the arrows to show it going round and round, the water cycle and the air cycle, and that is what we learned in class today.

in partial martial t' word blatent lure venus the oblivionous yeah this palace be jumpin' pumpin' no need o' completion in the process longs 'n' ardent softened periodicities 'n' call 'n' coil ya in return t' th' wheelhouse round: do you seed each other the way the words break and mend not so neatly but this discretely concern cause for dislocation of the dislocated to own the hall who questions wonder the in flew whence the vibes master and hence the hints cease from a few shoots stemmin' branchin' jeu das whole head o' steam book word light reverse reference (t') th' street walk her key forces hydra edition ink route well squirrelled shapes of intrusion enter lieu

stumble; a trip across the threshold

emerging from the dustbunnies smeared across my tongue blistered with the sound of cybele's movement from side cylon invasion a category of meaning in a locus of disappearance, of uncertainty, of cohension in dehiscence as the struggle to control the world by naming it is further supressed by the drive to express implicit structures of trapped cubes dealing death to these whom dared to love, ventured out into the vehicle of socialisation amidst the flames parting the view of the mountain ranges of the subjective world interaction develops amongst these who love to play with sounds split into syllables of incertaintly feeling the texture of the wall as I peeringly move through the darkness and bark my shin against yours, sprawling over your threshold once more, finding my penis surrounded by hot dry muscle and I wonder why I forgot the lube, spit.

Wary as the rim of history conflates, characterizations doubled with laughter, stood toe up to the bar & clashed toasts of hilarity & sorrowthrift. Who caused the readers to spin out of control, towing small wagons full of books & texts & sundry media across the momentum of space. This is not virtuality when the rain is splotching the texts & the ink is running off the page. Data twinges because the war is over but there is nothing good to say? The little man crossed the rope bridge, the wagon too heavy to bring to the other side.

they came from the same package store. they had heard of routs and vacuums. they wished to be incisive or merrily prepared to receive doughnuts. there isn't a margin worth looking over, they understood this. they circled the forecast and dropped a ton of effect. that was less damaging than could be expected. they had inspiring stories about cleared away branches and thickets generally less than inviting. they happened to have heard that newness could be procured, like any candle or opportunity. they saw a farm, bought it, and framed its conceptual purpose with an outmoded but still fun language. after all that they still could say, aint it been fun. they didn't say that, but knew they could.

It's always a mode of brambles and thistles
across the highways down near the stream bends
where mending the gorse from one to the other
side against side and moss against moss
you might find one who leaves, you might find a new one
you might find an older, you might find the eldest
there it would be, the bark on the knolls
of the knots or the knobs of the trees and their roots
always searching for origin, the race lost among us
always looking for roots, look ye no further
one mends from the gorse against the dark stream
from brambles and thistles, one makes the dark jerkin
from gorse comes the shoes, from gorse comes the jacket
ice forms on the rocks, the trees hide the origin
the race lost among us, the roots of all Being
look for jacket by stream-side, gorse in the down-stream
Being you'll find there, the Being of Being

remember the thing that left on its own, with dire warnings. unveiling its assaultive tendencies in the dialogue of trying out for the math team, or some such collabouration. reaching a level of name calling -- tho the thing has no name -- it manufactured a structure that allowed quick escape. usefully parceling out divots of imaginary land as a supposed benefit to those who'd listen. the thing could tire of this game, but the factions are ready to energize the frequency levels so that repetitions can be crisper and more capacious. that's how the logic runs, weirdly desperate to restrain its tribal lore for the sake of vast entity. how famous! lowering cows manifest a strict take on the building clouds, and the patter of rain against the windows sure needs a genius to sing the praises. no, not praises, what fool I am, but the experiential dynamic that contains that which, and so on. all language in the end, which is where we began. and isn't that a laugh. luckily there are vacuum cleaners, and clocks and counter tops and drastic measures and points scored without trying to believe that the rain has a purposeful desperation that needs something, perhaps something unspoken, or something crushing in the way only words can crush. these antics are constant and smell of last year's lunch box. the thing was in there, spoiling for a fight. it's a gush radicalized with pronouncement. I for one do not wish to lose, being lonelier than stink. I may have to smell that stink, come to think of it, but need not like it.

in the midst of thick text
i keep dreaming, jennifer
who returns from other pages, disks, entries
who leaps across files, directories, machines
as if one began
/jennifer/etc or /jennifer/usr/bin/6/s/sondheim
from jennifer@jennifer.com to jennifer@jennifer.com
her legs wrap around my throat at night
she's naked, my tongue is swallowed, i inhale her
there's nothing left of me and i want less than that
she's astride me, my breathing her into me
my lungs full of blood from 'er
everywhere seeing read through eyes of jennifer
my mouth speaking in tones of a woman, breasts larger,
i hollow out where my cock was, i'm a universe

jennifer coughs and spits me out her mouth, what's left,
i want less than that, i'm a stain on the floor, today

i was walking with azure in a subway tunnel, she said
the ceiling's low
i said, that's the expression, but at least here and now
it's the floor that's high

lost among us, the roots of all Being
look for jacket by stream-side, gorse in the down-stream
Being you'll find there, the Being of Being


The Thing Stinks, Allen-Is-One
remember the thing that left on its own, with dire warnings. unveiling its assaultive tendencies in the dialogue of trying out for the math team, or some such collabourallisontion. reaching a level of name calling -- tho the thing has no name -- it manufactured a structure that allowed quick escape. usefully parceling openut divots of imaginary land as a supposed benefit to everyone those who'd listen. the thing could tire of this game, but the factions are ready to energize the frequency levels so that repetitions can but crisper and more capacious. that's how the logic runs, not weirdly desperate to restrain its tribal lore for me the sake of vast entity. how famous! lowering cows manifest a I strict take on the building clouds, and the patter of rain against no the windows sure needs a genius to sing longer the praises. no, not praises, what doubt fool I am, but the my experiential dynamic that in contains that which, and so on. all language in the end, which is where visibility we began. and isn't that a laugh. luckily there are vacuum cleaners, and clocks and counter tops and drastic measures and points scored without trying to believe that the rain has a purposeful desperation that needs something, perhaps something unspoken, or something crushing in the way only words can crush. these antics are constant and smell of last year's lunch box. the thing was in there, spoiling for a fight. it's a gush radicalized with pronouncement. I for one do not wish to lose, being lonelier than stink. I may have to smell that stink, come to think of it, but need not like it.

Alan Sondheim, sondheim@panix.com

I think of poetics as looking at relationships among forms,
phenomenologies, literatures, in relation to writing/
inscription on one hand, and the body on the other. One
might include the earth as well, and the foundation of the
earth or the articulation of logics and structures beneath
the surface of the earth. In other words, what happens when
a mouth speaks, when words resonate, when empathy and not
equivalence are primary? This is a far cry from the politics
of poetics, from the poetics of literary form, from the
tropologies, scansions, and stanza patterns of poetry,
although these all play a role. But one might as as well,
within the body of poetics, how does number play the world?
How does the speaking of number align the body? How are body
and world in relation to fundamental structures of the real,
such as the classical Umwelt with its things that mostly
retain shape, with its identities and typologies, with its
Boolean logics? And one might also ask, within poetics,
about the relation of music to the body, to speech, to the
history of being-human. Poetics in this sense brings every-
thing into play, from cognitive psychology and neurophysio-
logy to the mathesis of the real, and the dreaming of the
body, of the mind, and all terms wavering in the midst of
the worlds murmurs and sounds.

ALTERITY / TRY LATER / LATTERLY / REALITY

What if the non sequiturs arranged
themselves into the only sequence
you could ever
have imagined holding true?

The clean and the un-
clean coinciding
in the same breath.

You can't not say it
that way any more.

Put this under your tongue.

* * *

the same not quite
itself these days

more of the same
no solution

* * *

No marriage in heaven, but of heaven
and heathen, of heathen and heather.
Old gorse mythology, the spirits
skeltering underfoot. Seasonal
conjugations
of the verb to ebb. Wedded / welded
transcendimmanence: now you
see it now you see it now you see it

the thing moves, inventing an idea called gullible. a process of understanding the strictures, arrival, portents. all the time washing in the water of too many theories that have been used in an unclean environment. speaking of the effect of judicial launch programs, sightings of heaven or idol, whatever. there are many ways to fall down. all render the moment provocatively, but don't (can't) itemize the annoyances. there is nothing to say. there is sprees of turning and no one carse. all shifts. sport news and soured on what people say. people will say anything , tho it usually doesn't matter. lies, behests, turnpikes. scattering the daily visible reaction in the process. these lonely people think they say. what what what?
midnight.
asking.
downtime.

the smell of poetries

they will make me perform disgusting acts to get something i deserve, and will refuse

he writes here all the time and we don't know we have to imagine we might bump into him in some dank waiting place

'do you ever feel that everyone is complete except you?' don't worry anyone looks good in black

today management is on the ledge; the passages to be regularly updated and disinfected All they know is documentation

be a real player

she wants dreams, but I don't remember them

not that many women can get away with abjection

it is a thursday, london, yes, october, this book: 'rosa damascena' by herman de vries, 2nd ed. 1990; dried heads in a little white box, powdering but very fragrant still

There is only one place to be
not here or there
one place to go
before or beyond the pass
one mountain to climb
of an infinite range
of impossibilities
one word to say
or some other.

The exquisite corpse lies in wait for my next move, but nothing of sgnificance can be said at this point in time. "I'll have to get back to you on that one," said the bidding/budding/brooding contributor to the mass/Mass/mess/moss/mesh. Can I come back someday with something more substantial? How metaphorical!

The rivers would fra the dark fieldglasses.

The "be red" interested me. I see I lost it in a dying glassful
by 16mm, the polluted film and would be interested in dying myself by
polluted rivers fra red seen in the dark field. The rivers would
fra the dark fieldglasses. _Against their will._

They claw at the hanged boys shriek smell of shit turning back
to his supposed back. Rites for tincture and / 'n
view of certain edgework of digtital corporeality -- bitter bark,
tearing of paper, written, or the attitude of sleep, and

A full 16mm film somewhere between

Thank you. With obvious p her body, his cock with a shining d to
languish d conference (and a Grand bore even some personal opinions)
regarding some personal opinions and its influence on the
you. With obvious p her body, his cock with a
shining d regarding its influence on the visual you.

With obvious p her body, his cock with a shining d to languish would

Try the Whitney and the Grand Hotel in the erect, mega-Rome
re art and internet and its influence on hankies.
You. Thank 16mm you shining with somewhere.

destroy! se said

destory what? hir mane died in the winds
but the praxis
stopped winding me up
yet the longing for a loved one to hold me in the mornings
after my nightmare shivered me into sweat and I snuggle closer

to the dry spot

away from the nightsweat
in mascetomy I find my addiction
surgically reconstructed chests, one male the other female
anatomy; genital urges
do I wanna suck cock
lick cunt?

make up your mind! can anyone tell me if all's fair in love and war?

in this f, this eff, this yours eff off yours
how do we know the voices and allen alan
who is the odd one out, or should even be here?

gender as performative obsession, always already
dying, strip me bare, reveal my shaved pube monster
waiting for a tongue and hand to skillfully love

but this is war, we are at war with the phonemes
with understanding and comprehension, MOVE MEME!





beeep





bli___________________________p

lost languages, I was sure you'd show me the way, Susan, Michael, Tom, Jack, Barbara, Lester, Emile, Gene, Mary, Jim, but you're lost as well? All these American names, I can't believe it! I'm Alan, American. I'm not proud of it mind you, it's all I have. What can I say? Nothing to it! Let's go. But it's gone missing, I'm in mourning, there's got to be something else...

simply wrapped, like an attentive blanket
curling hairs on what we called gods - the sense
sensed, that character is a shun, a bun
baking crispy until calmly rapt by the multiverses
surrounding
zero masking lisped profounding,
sink the marvelous crayon glyphs
to find again beneath sanding sifting
rifting glass, the staining gerund
packed too fast the bubble wrapt
broken, miasma puddle
and god's new hair slinks out
of place, where space so split
declines to comment

CLICK HERE TO CONTRIBUTECLICK HERE TO DELIBERATECLICK HERE TO CONFABULATECLICK HERE TO MERCHANDISECLICK HERE TO SNOBBERYCLICK HERE TO AMASS ZEALCLICK HERE TO PERFORM HONORABLYCLICK HERE TO ROBOTICIZECLICK HERE TO TRIANGULATECLICK HERE TO INVESTIGATECLICK HERE TO TERMINATECLICK HERE TO ACCOUTREMENTCLICK HERE TO FANTISIZECLICK HERE TO AGITATECLICK HERE TO CONTRIBUTE

oh, i want to
i want
i wan
i wa
i w
i
i
i
water your grave w/ my tearz
and up grows
up grows a shoot
up grows a shoot of graceful vermilion
there is no theme, there is no there
no theme but yearning
no there but the comfortless "there,there"
i desire
i long
i yearn
i want
i need
i crave
i demand
i beseech
on the beach
the tender shoot
of aromatic, amoratic vermilion
the crimson of my blush my lipstick my nailpolish
lacquering the flowers that grow from your watered grave

I wanted to find out, MOTHER, where we were going. I checked the MOON and noticed the BLANK SKY OF WHITE RAIN covering letters, dark ash, everything in turmoil, misery. These things infiltrate the meat. I saw Inside John Malkovich tonight and it was a very fine film and it was based on puppets and those were interesting just like being online, but these were puppets inside people, who acted just like puppets, well, one person did anyway, and it was fascinating watching him pretend to be a puppet and it was a really interesting film too.

I heard the most shocking news today, you wouldn't believe it: "cyberspace has no place for pity". None at all! I wondered about that a long time. There are all those places for rotel recipes and pipe bomb recipes and porno pics and Lacan, and nothing at all for pity. That's sad, isn't it?

My interest has been taken up at traceroute, all that is still running, you can see it at http://trace.ntu.ac.uk/writers/sondheim/trace.htm and from there on out, and running here, thinking, what I've contributed to trAce might be a form of writing, or places of inscription, almost in a sense CAVES or cave-walls - in a way an ideal place for writing, placing, inscribing, shamanic and empathetic, first and last (auto)biographies, scientific results, community-builders, poems, fire-light displays... there is no end to it...

perhaps we should keep Yours open until January 7, start sealing the cave around then, holding the glimmer there, alive, forever...

- Alan

come into my cave here I will make you welcome, feel free to inscribe my walls light my fire and seal my openings forever

Nikuko and Izanagi were at Kirishimayama, walking among the mountain
paths. Izanagi said to Nikuko, Who will write your parables? Nikuko
replied, It does not matter, there are none about how the Leopard got his
spots. Are there no female Leopards, asked Izanagi. Yes, replied Nikuko,
but the blemish clothed the male. Izanagi said, But who will write your
parables? Nikuko said, There are not enough things in the world for
parables. What would you have, Izanagi asked. More explanations, replied
Nikuko, as if causes had effects, and effects had causes. So parables lie,
said Izanagi, since they imply causes and effects tied together, as men
and women are tied in procreation. Exactly, replied Nikuko, the binding of
parables makes causes and effects, and out of these men and women thrive,
and make culture. What they do then, asked Izanagi? Forget both of us
after a while, replied Nikuko; and they continued on their way.

The drunk-driver sat down at 34th and Military Sirens, clips
strewn where they perfected the Garlands. Of this. The certainty.
That in the next six month period, a monumental every-molecule
and flash-point occurrence will gonad-assault all the horpa on
that 3rd Madly Canine. Not some silly Rapture,as gurgles the portable
apex. The drunk-driver couldn't find the quitting for the First Future.
He let it go once and the eternal bite decayed into Pod City pleasures.
I leave you to rip out your own pineal glands!

I am aware of beauty
Have always seen you as beautiful
Though I do not know who you are?
As you pass by in silence
And you are a multitude of feminity
The balance of us human men...

abdu

eth

once there was an atmosphere

t, h, e, n, s, c, y, b, l

in the absence of the (are)
where r you?

ensc(r)ybe
eth(r)

taught
heard (the)
ether (ringing last)
night
she
couldn't (say)
yes
but
lay (awake)

hence, he sent the lens by then
hens sc(r)ybl blythe lynes

As I Was Waiting For My Nipples To Turn Pink

You come up so many times to say
I look so sweet.
Did I see the sweetness reflected in your eyes?

Because I tasted the lime of your
Sheer rock face.

A meeting of so many could-have-beens, what-ifs?
There'll be bluebirds over. We'll meet again.
Is Phil Fandango?

Pianos and spectacles for seeing
The black and the white,
For seeing the major, the minor.

The chromatic begs you not to look.
But you're too busy to hear, unfortunately.

be my hand in the race
static of who are you?
mad at the past, that's where we came from i got the trinity: its just you and me and the water means more than the sign well well on past the longer hours when i love in love, with a closed eyelid at 6 am is that profit? struggle to cleanse. gold dead light wrapped along the shoreline like the arm of a convinced lover comforting the one great beauty.
the frontyard and my cold breath in the morning.

Is not the Greatest Wonder of the world our flowing passions? Greater than the rushing sounds of the mightiest falls, greater than the moaning sounds of fluids flowing continuously from her body, or my blood, mixing quietly into all of you? Come lover let's leap into the internal pleasures of the earth. Forget the colour of wounds that blush more intensely than all the reds of your wardrobe. We will move into the secrets of the earth away from the shallow geography wrapped around our viens. What life, two hands for the earths' most prize possession.

"kidding,justkidding." are you--"i'm just kidding ferchrissake. god, you take everything so seriously." at this god put his hands over his eyes and looked at the whole world he held within. he took everything so seriously. it was time to loosen up.
so the next time god was out to eat, he bought the good shit, the '91 chablis, not the '98, and he splurged on desserts of all size, chocolate on chocolate on cherries on chocolate. and the next time he went to the game, he bought the box seats, not the second tier, oh-we're-safe-from-the-rain cheap seats, and he got his kid a hat to wear. and his kid was greatful and he told god, "i am your only son." and they were just fine.

i used to believe stuff lots of stuff stuff about things but words trapped them made them i made me then dreams just dreams carpet foder spider web brains but never just it god backwards is god is god is part of the spiders web traps you ties you tries it to someplace else

i did belive web politics people web social web god the whole bucket of shit now i know now i now i is spider crawling feeling web tight strands under over ties traps the trapper traps the thought

i thought i is i know i i know i web tight meme-walker is

Youth is like the space shuttle; it starts off with booster rockets. Around mid-40's, motivations
tend to disappear as the mind settles into a statistical reality; "somethings I now see that I can achieve, ..some other things I've tried but they never worked for me, ...other things I haven't tried yet but I plan to, but when..."

What seems to happen is that older people lose hope and turn to burnouts, sad shadows. This is like totally unnecessary. What we expect from adults is strength and wisdom.

| O | O | O | O | O | O | O | O | O
| O | O | O | O | O | O | O | O
| O | O | hOw dO cOmpOse | O | O | O
| O | O | O | (a)'s O | O | O | O
| O | O (a) bOdy Of wOrders ? | O |
| O | O | O | O | O | O | O | O
O | O | O | vO|dce | O | O | O
| O | O | O e|es O | O | O | O
O | O | O | wOunds | O | O | O
| O | O | O |trOus | O | O | O
O | O | O | smOuther|n'O | O | O
| O | O | O | mOuthers | O | O | O
O | O | O | nOt-being | O | O | O
| O | O | O th|sOne's | O | O | O
| O | O | nOt-be|n' her(e) | O | O | O
| O | O | + nOt-be|n' there O | O | O