People have been asking me what I was going to do for New Year’s Eve. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For those in need of private info and insight into my life, here’s a bit of extreme information. I do nothing. I abhor the very idea of being with others. Always have. I spent my afternoon painting – a photograph with books in it inspired me – and when I finished, I put the canvas out to dry on top of my mirror. The painting came out just right. The picture here doesn’t do it justice. Nor does it do justice to myself – I say this after two glasses of champagne. In spite of wearing nothing other than the silk - no make up, and no jewelries - I thought that I looked pretty stunning. Such knowledge doesn’t require others’ recognition. After the fireworks show outside my new apartment, which was also stunning from both balconies, I went on to reading a book that my best friend and another good one have contributed to. Franca Belarsi gives a stunning reading of Michael McClure’s poem Fuck Ode. So, as I like to fuck traditions myself, here are a couple of lines that should get you all started on your new projects, whatever they may be. You have my good wishes for everything in the new year. Make sure to read some good poems now and then. That’s all I have to say.

in with the fields without proportions, the black clover
grown meadows. THERE IS NO SIZE! Undreaming and vast as a dream. This love is INVENTED. The huge COCK.
Slipping in the soft dream. No dream. In the cunt,
THERE! In the mouth. The slipping of figures upon the other. The rocking, the hugging swaying, HOLDING.

(The emphasis belongs to McClure. I’m not that drunk. Hell, when I come to think of it, I’ve never been drunk in my life. Drunk with emotion and feeling perhaps. But then, as the best of them say: "emotion and feeling behold the highest thought, the very highest thought (Robin Blaser in his talk about the inseparability of poetry and philosophy)).


Anonymous said…
immaculate champagne in a HUGE glass and candid strawberries presented with white silk, versus mclure's lyrical impurities.

hmm. i'd also call that a perfect day.

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